


Irene

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after <em>Crush</em>. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 1/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 1/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER ONE**

 

She didn’t top five feet, not even in her lime green platform shoes, and she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Her ash-blonde hair was piled in a careful bun and she squinted at him through thick glasses.

“Sit,” she said.

He looked around the room uncomfortably, eyeing the floral sofa and matching armchairs. He chose the nearest chair, and she scowled at him when he knocked the doilies on the arms slightly askew. He straightened them.

“So,” she said. “What is it you want?” Her voice was high-pitched and reedy.

He cleared his throat. “We, erm, that is, these humans, see? They’re looking for some magic gew-gaw. The Talisman of Ucoahb. And they seem to think you might have it, or know where it is.”

She lifted one pencil-thin eyebrow. “And why are _you_ acting as errand-boy, vampire?”

He shifted in his seat. Giles had claimed that this demon was especially dangerous, that it was terribly strong and completely vicious. So it had been decided that Spike would go, since he might be less vulnerable. He didn’t want to mention his complicated situation to her, and it seemed foolish to fear this tiny being. He could snap her in half if he chose to. But politeness seemed best, at least until he got what he came for. So all he said was, “I owed them a good turn, Miss.”

“Irene. You may call me Irene. And you are?”

“Spike.”

“Tsk. Your _given_ name, boy.”

He gritted his teeth. “William.”

She walked over to the sofa and sat on it, smoothing her polka-dotted skirt over her bony knees. “And suppose I could help you with your search, William. What would you have to offer me in return?”

Spike shoved a hand in his jeans pocket and fished out the object Giles had given him. It was a small figure of a horned skull, done in some greasy metal. For some reason, Spike hated to touch it, and he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want it. But Irene’s eyes glittered as soon as she saw it. She didn’t take it from his outstretched palm, though.

“You would give this to me, William?”

“That’s the deal, yeah.”

“Willingly?”

“Erm, yeah.” Something about this conversation was making him distinctly uneasy. But she smiled at him, a grin that rearranged the wrinkles on her face and revealed a row of minute, needle-sharp teeth. She gave him a long, intense stare and then she stood.

“One moment. Stay here.”

She left the room. He looked around again, taking in the small shelf full of porcelain figurines, the framed, needleworked landscapes on the pinkish wall, the little pots of African violets scattered on the table and mantel.

Irene returned with a gold chain dangling from her hand. A pendant hung from the chain and as she came closer he saw that it was a swirly shape, perhaps in some alphabet he didn’t know, and it was studded with several small emeralds. She stood in front of him and swung it slightly.

“Here,” she said.

He held out the skull for her, but she shook her head. “No, William. Take the Talisman to your human friends. Then come back.”

“Why can’t you just take it now?” he asked impatiently.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ll do as you’re told, William. I’ll expect you back at eight tomorrow evening, understand?”

“And if I’m not?”

Something glinted in her eyes, just a momentary flash. “You’ll do as you’re told,” she repeated.

He stuffed the skull back in his trousers and snatched at the Talisman. He placed it carefully in an inside pocket of his duster.

Pursing her lips at him, she led him to the door and opened it for him.

“Eight o’clock, William.”

He nodded and left.

 

“She didn’t seem all that dangerous.”

Giles looked up from his book. “Yes, well, looks can be deceiving. Did you get it?”

Spike handed him the Talisman. Giles peered at it closely and then set it on the table with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

“She wouldn’t take the trinket.”

“But she gave you the Talisman nonetheless?”

“I’m meant to bring it to her tonight.”

Giles nodded slowly. “Yes. All right, then.”

“What if I don’t? You already have your bauble. I don’t much fancy another visit with her.”

Now the Watcher glared at him. “Spike, if you don’t keep your end of the bargain, the mystical properties of the Talisman will be nullified. And then Buffy won’t—“

“Fine, fine. I’ll go.”

Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Slayer now, would he? Hah. As if his very existence wasn’t a disappointment to her.

He stomped sullenly down the sidewalk, wishing he had the bollocks to rid himself of her, or at least abandon this cursed little town for good. He should go to Barcelona again. He’d liked Barcelona.

He stopped in front of the house he’d been to the night before. Nothing remarkable about it. Small, grayish ranch-style with slightly crumbling stucco. Tidy front yard with purple iceplant and an orange tree. Concrete statue of a dog with a basket in its mouth.

The front door was brown and slightly worn. He rang the bell, and a moment later the door swung open. Irene squinted up at him. She was wearing the green shoes again, but this time a blue dress with a full skirt. She looked human, could certainly pass for it among real humans, but she smelled distinctly demonic to Spike. He held the skull out to her but she waved her hand at it.

“Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Come in, William.”

He followed her inside, then jumped slightly as she shut the door behind him. Why wouldn’t she just take the sodding thing?

“Follow me,” she said, and led him into the kitchen. It was spotlessly clean, but it looked as if the entire room had been timewarped from 1971.

She halted next to the small, vinyl-covered table. There was a pile of lined paper on the table and a red pen. “Well, let me see it,” she said, and Spike handed the thing over. She looked at it for a moment.

“Did your human friends tell you what this is?”

“No.”

She held it between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s a token, really. A symbol. At one time, humans would set one of these on a cord, and give it to one of their people to wear, and then send the person off into the forest. It was a sign to me, you see, a sign that a sacrifice had been made.”

Spike took a step backward, toward the front door. “Sacrifice?”

She grinned at him. “Yes. An exchange, actually, for goods or favors. Such as a much-needed talisman, for instance.”

He had had enough of this, enough of her. “That’s nice,” he said, and turned to leave.

As soon as his back was to her, though, something twined around his ankles, sending him crashing face-first to the floor. He spun onto his back, changing to his demon face as he did, but before he could strain upward, his arms were held tightly to his sides as well. He struggled and writhed, but the bindings only grew tighter, and then he saw what was holding him.

Tentacles.

Long, long tentacles, each of them emanating from Irene’s body. More of them—at least a dozen—waved and whipped around her head.

He fought with all his strength, but couldn’t budge them. He bent and tried to bite at them with his fangs, but he couldn’t get his teeth into them. They were as tough as steel cables.

“What the fuck are you—“

But he couldn’t finish, because one of the tentacles suddenly shoved into his mouth and coiled there, forcing his jaw painfully wide and flooding him with the taste of rotted carrion. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the tip made its way back, down his throat, filling him and choking him, and continuing onward, all the way into his lung. He thrashed and tried to scream, but he couldn’t even breathe, and then the thing was ripping through his lung, tearing a hole in the soft tissues and then wrapping tightly around his unbeating heart.

The pain was indescribable.

Irene came closer and stared happily down at his fruitlessly squirming body, at the tears of agony and rage that were running from his eyes.

“Excellent,” she chirped. “I’d never tried vampire before. I wasn’t sure it would work. And you’ll last a long time, won’t you, William?”

He tried to answer. To threaten her somehow, or perhaps just beg. But he couldn’t make a sound, and now she had him held so tightly that he could barely move, either. He could only watch in horror as more of her appendages came toward him. The tips of two of them wormed their way into his ears, blocking all sounds. Then another wrapped itself firmly around his upper face, covering his eyes and blinding him.

He was so completely overcome with panic that he barely noticed as he was lifted and carried. Eventually, however, he calmed slightly, and he tried to get some idea of where he was going. With most of his senses gone, though—he couldn’t even smell, since he couldn’t breathe—it was impossible. It seemed like he was carried for some time, however.

At last he was set down on something cold, and hard, and slightly uneven.

The fastenings around his legs loosened and he tried to kick out, but his legs were promptly grasped again and spread, and then his ankles were fastened in place. He bucked up with his hips, but it did him no good. A tentacle wrapped very tightly around his neck, holding his upper body against the surface, and the one around his arms and torso was released. Again, though, before he could lash out, his wrists were grabbed and his arms spread over his head, and then his wrists were attached as well.

The tentacle inside his body began to slowly withdraw, causing more pain as it went, but in a moment it was gone completely, bringing a huge gout of blood to run out his nose and mouth. He could take deep, excruciating breaths, but only one of his lungs would inflate.

The light was dim, but he could make out Irene standing over him, all her tentacles retracted, her appearance once more human. She was smiling happily at him. He was in a cave of some sort, it appeared, with uneven, rough-hewn walls and a high ceiling. Several torches were set into iron holders on the wall.

He was chained to a large, flat boulder, the surface of which tilted slightly so that his head was a little higher than his body. He strained against the manacles but they didn’t give at all, and Irene grinned more widely. He tried to yell, but only a hoarse, raspy cry tore from his throat.

“Let’s see what we have,” she said, almost giggling. A few of her tentacles reappeared and Spike tensed as they neared him. This time, they unlaced his boots and pulled them off his body, then began tearing at his clothes. His struggles, of course, were useless, and within moments he was naked. The coarse stone beneath him ground against his skin.

Irene looked down at him as if he were a specimen in a lab. “Pretty,” she said.

“Bitch,” is what he tried to reply, but only a jagged cough came out.

One of the tentacles traced slowly over his face. He turned away, but she drew him back, the tip just barely touching his cheekbones and nose and chin. Then it moved down his neck and onto his chest, and it toyed for a moment with each of his nipples. Down to his belly it wandered, dipping into his navel for a moment, and he wasn’t at all surprised when it cupped his bollocks and then twined around his flaccid cock.

Then she squeezed.

She laughed merrily as he wriggled and moaned, and when she loosened the tentacle a bit he groaned in relief.

“Hmm,” she said. “It’s been so long. I wonder….” And then she began gently stroking him. He set his jaw and looked up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the soft, teasing caresses. It might have worked, too, except suddenly there was a pressure against his sphincter, and he howled almost silently as a second tentacle worked its slow way inside him.

The tearing pain in his throat and chest was a reminder of what those tentacles were capable of, but now her touches were as gentle as a lover’s. Despite his efforts, he felt his cock began to fill. She laughed again and the tentacle inside him brushed lightly against his prostate.

Dru and Harmony were gone, and his only company for some time had been his fantasies of Buffy and his own left hand. And he was a vampire, after all, a tactile creature of prodigious appetites. Despite his pain and fear and anger and disgust, he reacted to Irene’s touches, and within minutes he was fighting not to buck up against the tentacles. Soon he felt his bollocks draw tight against him and, with another gravelly croak of a shout, he came.

Irene laughed. She withdrew the tentacles and used one of them to scoop the semen off of his belly. She brought it to her mouth and licked it off, a look of satisfaction on her face. “Mmm. Cold but tasty,” she said. “A nice appetizer.”

Before he even had a chance to wonder about the main course, one of the appendages was waving over his face and then it was in his ear again. He was gripped in horrible pain as it worked its way into his skull, but that was almost a love pat compared to the hideous torture that suddenly wracked his entire body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see or hear. All he could do was _feel_, and the agony he felt was much worse than he’d ever imagined.

It lasted a minute or an hour or a century. He had no idea.

Eventually, though, it ended, and the tentacle was gone, and Irene was standing very close to him.

“That was nice. Nicer than human, even. Delightful.” She sighed contentedly and rubbed her bit of a pot belly with a human-looking hand. “Goodnight, William.”

He watched groggily as she walked behind him. He heard the slam of a metal door, and the sound of a lock turning, and then it appeared he was alone.

It took some time for the pain to recede enough for him to think clearly. There was nothing much else to see. The torches threw dancing shadows on the stone walls and ceiling. He could smell his own blood and semen, and a lingering whiff of Irene, and earth, and the small scurrying things that live underground. He heard nothing but his own wheezing breaths.

He tried again to pull on the chains that bound him, but only succeeded in tearing his own flesh. They were clearly meant to be demon-proof.

He was cold and hungry and he hurt.

His duster was in shreds and he wanted a cigarette.

As he lay there, shivering miserably, he knew two things. Giles had deliberately and knowingly set him up for this. And nobody was going to come to his rescue.

Eventually, the torches sputtered out, and he was alone in the dark.

 

He heard the creaking of a door and a shaft of light fell over him. Footsteps, and there was Irene, lighting fresh torches. He couldn’t see her shoes, but she was wearing a light pink dress and a white cardigan.

“Did you rest well, William?” she chirped.

“Let me go.” Because he hadn’t fed, his throat hadn’t healed, and his voice was only a dry rasp.

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll tear you apart, bitch.”

She reached out and cupped his bollocks with her tiny, human-like hand. Her skin was warm. Hot almost. “That’s cute that you’re trying to be threatening.” She stroked his sensitive skin with the ball of her thumb and then, without warning, compressed him in a hard, tight fist. He yelped and then gritted his teeth.

“Cute,” she repeated. “Now, let’s get on with it. I have exams to grade. Those children simply cannot learn the conditional tense.”

He moaned when she let go of him, but then the tentacles appeared. He couldn’t make out where they came from or how they attached to her body. They just seemed to materialize when she wanted them and then disappear when she didn’t, without affecting her clothing at all.

He squirmed powerlessly as she twined around his cock, and as another appendage again forced its way into his sore sphincter. “Cunt—“ he coughed.

“William! I will not tolerate that kind of language!” A tentacle slapped him hard in the face, drawing blood from his lips and slamming his head into the rock beneath him.

It took her very little time to get him erect again, and minutes after that he was ejaculating onto his stomach and chest. As before, she gathered and ate his come.

And then the tentacle came towards his head and he screamed and tried to move away, but it was in his ear again, then in his cranium. This time he was lucky. He blacked out.

She came back periodically after that. Sometimes she poured some cold blood into his mouth. Cow, usually, and not enough to permit him to heal well, but just sufficient to keep him sentient. After several visits his cock refused to become hard, no matter how much she played with it, so she would cluck her tongue and press inside him instead, milking his prostate and causing his semen to dribble out pitifully.

She became impatient with his threats and swearing, and ripped at his larynx. He couldn’t make any sound at all after that. But when she heard his voice return a bit, when he squealed raggedly as she penetrated his head, she’d reinjure his throat.

In between Irene’s visits there was nothing.

For a time, his arms and legs ached badly from being held immobile so long, but eventually all feeling in his limbs faded away. His back and buttocks were sore from constant friction against the coarse stone, but he almost welcomed that, because at least it was _something_.

Sometimes he imagined scenarios of what he’d like to do to the Watcher. Sometimes he replayed over a century’s worth of memories. Sometimes he managed to shut off his mind entirely, for a while.

Sometimes he cried.

He had no idea how long he had been in the stone chamber. What he did know was that each time Irene visited, a little bit more of the energy that sustained him was drained away, much as he’d once drained his victims of their life blood. Eventually, he expected, he’d gutter out like the torches did, and, as with the torches, little would remain except a pile of ash.

He had begun to yearn for that.

 

This time when Irene arrived he barely stirred. He couldn’t. Virtually the only movement he could make now was a slight fluttering of his eyelids, and even that took all his strength.

So when she unlocked the cuffs around his ankles and wrists, he realized what she was doing, but he didn’t try to move off of the stone slab. And when she gathered him in her tentacles he merely flopped limply.

She carried him out the door and he caught glimpses of a long rock corridor. Then another door opened and his nose caught night scents. He inhaled as deeply as his ravaged throat permitted, drawing those familiar, comforting smells into himself.

He heard her feet clomping lightly on pavement. She walked for some time and then stopped and dumped him onto the ground. He grunted slightly as he slammed into asphalt, but then could only blink up at her. They were in an alley, littered with boxes and dustbins and scraps of debris.

“I’ve enjoyed you, William, but I’m afraid your taste has gone off. You’re not very fresh any more. I could have just staked you, of course, but I thought this would be more fun.”

A tentacle snaked out and grabbed a length of metal piping that was affixed to the brick building on one side of them. She wrenched the pipe free with a grating screech and then snapped off a piece perhaps three feet long. He couldn’t resist at all as she thrust the pipe into his arse, shoving it far inside him, gashing and rupturing his tender tissues. She broke off another piece, and used it as a dull spear to pierce his abdomen, not stopping until it protruded through his back. He screamed silently.

“Somebody might find you before dawn, William. You have a few hours. And they might decide to help you. Or not.” She giggled. “I don’t imagine you have a lot of friends, do you?”

She impaled his chest with a third piece of metal.

Then she smiled at him. “Bye!” And she walked away.

Long minutes later, he tried to remove the metal from his body, but he couldn’t even lift his arms. He couldn’t crawl away, either. So he let the grayness at the edges of his vision overcome him. He hoped that his incineration would be quick.

 

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/55500.html)


	2. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 2/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 2/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER TWO**

 

 

“Look, I know you have the Spidey-sense and all, but there are no demons in this alley. See? Empty alley. It is a bastion of demon-free emptiness. Let’s just—“

“Sshh! I heard something.”

“Probably just a rat. Or a cat. Or a cat chasing a rat, or.... Oh. Oh, shit. We’re too late for this guy. Jesus Christ. Something put him through the wringer.”

“Are you sure he’s dead, Xander?”

“Cold. No heartbeat. Those are two good clues and—Holy mother of fuck.”

“Xan? What—Spike?!”

Spike blinked up at the shadowy shapes, trying to focus his eyes. Warm hands touched his shoulder and arm.

“Spike? What happened to you?”

That wasn’t really Buffy, was it? He opened his mouth but no sound came out except a slight gasp.

“Buff? I’m thinking sunrise is almost here, and if we don’t want vampire flambé, we need to get him out of here.”

“Okay, yeah. You get his feet and I’ll—We need to get these things out of him first.”

“Uh…how?”

“Like this.” There was a horrible, wrenching pain as the pipe in his chest was yanked out. He opened his mouth wide and croaked out a scream. Almost before he was done, though, she’d pulled out the one in his belly. When she tugged on the third bar, Spike felt the rush of blood that poured out of him.

“Whoa, that’s…that’s just wrong.”

“C’mon. I’ll get his head.”

Spike groaned as he was lifted and carried down the alley. He couldn’t see Buffy, but the other one—the boy, Harris—was staring at him with a look of disgust.

“I thought he’d left town. Isn’t that was Giles said?”

“He came back.”

“Why does he keep coming back?”

“You’ll have to ask him that. I’m the vampire Slayer, not the vampire shrink.”

They put him down for a moment and he felt that tingling that came upon his skin just before the sun rose. But then they picked him up again and settled him into the boot of a car. It was slammed shut, and a moment later they were moving.

He was cramped, but at least he wasn’t burning. Even over the drone of the engine, he could hear them talking.

“Where to? Demon Memorial? Oh, wait. There is no Demon Memorial.”

“How about your place?”

“My apartment is not a vampire hospital. And I did my time with Captain Peroxide, remember?”

“Well, we can’t take him to my house.”

“Why not?”

“You want him around Dawnie?”

“Christ. Why are we doing this anyway? Why can’t you just stake him?”

“Maybe I will.” Spike’s stomach clenched at this. Not that he’d expected her to welcome him in loving arms, but that was just so cold. “But I want to find out what did this to him. I figure, anything capable of doing this much damage to a vampire is a threat to humans, too.”

There was a short pause.

“Okay. Fine. But as soon as he talks, he’s outta there, okay?”

“Agreed.”

The car stopped a short time later. Buffy and Harris had a discussion about how to get him inside, and eventually the boy opened the boot and threw a heavy blanket over Spike. They picked him up again and carried him inside. Spike inhaled the scent of the blanket as they went. Pizza and beer and potato crisps.

“Where are we taking him?”

“Bed, I guess.”

“Great. I get to sleep on the couch in my own home.”

They set him down and pulled away the blanket. The mattress was deliciously soft underneath him. They both stood there, staring at him, and suddenly he realized he was naked and filthy and badly damaged. He tried to move, but couldn’t manage even a finger twitch.

“Wow. He looks worse in the light.”

“Mmm-hmm. He needs blood.”

“Sorry. Fresh out.”

He hated the way they were talking about him as if he couldn’t understand them. A small creak escaped from his throat and Buffy frowned.

Buffy. Perhaps it was just the early hour, but she looked older. More careworn.

She turned to Harris. “Okay. Can you get him, I dunno, cleaned up? I’m going to go round up some A Pos.”

He put on a pained look. “Buff, I—“

“C’mon. You don’t have to work today. Besides, which of us is going to be able to intimidate Willy out of some of his finest stock?”

“Hey! I can intimidate! I’m all…Intimidation Guy. Okay. You go. I’ll play vampire nurse.”

Buffy left, and Harris stood there a while, just looking at him. Finally, he sighed and walked away. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a stack of towels under one arm and a bowl in his hands. He set the bowl on his nightstand and sat beside Spike.

“Okay. I don’t even know where to start here. How about…your face?” He dipped a towel into the bowl. Then he dabbed it against Spike’s brow, surprisingly gently. The water was warm, too, and that was unexpected as well.

“I gotta say. The radioactive look was one thing, but this hairstyle’s not doing a thing for you.” He picked up a matted, dirty lock of hair, and Spike’s breath caught. It was very long. Probably past his shoulders, despite the snarls and the curls. How long had Irene held him there?

Harris finished wiping his face and, for the first time, really looked him straight in the eyes. “Spike? Are you hearing me?”

Spike tried to make an affirmative sound, failed, and instead blinked his eyes rapidly.

“I take it that’s a yes.” Harris swiped at Spike’s neck now and it hurt to have pressure on the area, but it felt so bloody lovely to be a bit cleaner. Then the boy worked on Spike’s chest, taking special care around the open wound. Still, Spike hissed a little when the raw flesh was jostled.

“I hope you weren’t off getting de-chipped. ‘Cause I’m gonna be pretty pissed if we get you all patched up and you just turn around and eat me. I mean, um, drain me. Uh…never mind.” He was blushing slightly.

He blushed even more when he made his way down to Spike’s groin. “Um, Spike? You’re kind of a mess here because of that pipe, and, um…. Christ.” With a grim twist of his lips, and without looking up at Spike, he cleaned Spike’s cock and bollocks, and then he spread his legs a bit and washed his inner thighs and the area around his injured hole. Spike wasn’t too thrilled to be handled again, but it was certainly better than Irene’s insistent molestations.

Harris was just finishing Spike’s feet when the door slammed and then Buffy entered, a large white cooler in her arms. “Delivery!” she sang. She looked down at Spike. “So, I guess he looks a little better. More mostly dead than completely corpsey.”

She put the cooler down and held up a clear plastic bag. Human blood, by the look of it. His mouth watered. “I’m not sure how to do this without making a mess.”

“Straw.”

“Huh?”

“Just a sec.” Xander left the room. When he returned he was carrying a small piece of white and red plastic in his hand. “Bendy straw.”

“Xander, why do you have straws in your house?”

“Because sometimes a man likes to drink his milk with a straw. And the bendy ones are much manlier, don’t you think?”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

Spike wished he could demand that they just get on with it. Soon enough, though, Xander poked a hole in the bag with the tip of a penknife and inserted the straw, and then held the bag while Spike sucked greedily. It was wonderful. The rich taste of it filled his mouth and the coppery sweetness soothed his ruined throat. He didn’t even care that it was cold or that he was drinking it through a sodding straw.

When the bag was empty, Harris asked if he wanted another, and Spike blinked his eyes again. He gave a long, slow blink when the boy stuck the straw between his lips again. “You’re welcome,” Harris said.

Buffy sat on the bed. “He’s a lot less annoying when he’s quiet like this.”

“Whatta ya think did this to him?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Spike, I swear, if this is some kind of trick….”

“A trick where he gets himself impaled?”

“Sure. So that I would find him and help him and—“

“Buff. He’s really hurt bad. He might not be the best planner but I don’t think even he’s that sneaky.”

Buffy crossed her arms and stared at the wall. Spike slurped the last of the blood.

“More?” Spike blinked and Harris prepared a third packet. Spike could almost feel himself healing as his stomach filled.

“You suppose Willow will be home soon?” Harris’s voice was slightly wistful.

“Giles says he thinks so. It’s gonna be weird, won’t it?” At the Watcher’s name, Spike growled silently around the plastic in his mouth. Neither of the humans noticed.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Still, it’ll be nice to have her back.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah.”

They were silent as Spike finished feeding.

“Gonna go for fourths?” Spike closed his eyes in a long, slow blink. He was actually full, for the first time since Irene took him.

“’Kay, then. I’m gonna put these in the fridge.”

Harris carried the cooler away. As soon as he left the room, Buffy glared at Spike. “If you lift one finger against Xander, I’ll make you beg to be dust.”

Spike would have laughed, if he could have. He couldn’t even lift a finger, and he’d already yearned for final death. She shot him a last, threatening look, and then stomped out of the room.

Despite his injuries and paralysis, Spike was feeling better than he had in ages: somewhat cleaner, well-fed, and lying on soft linens. His eyes fell closed and he allowed himself to slip into a grateful sleep.

 

“Here’s the deal.”

Spike blinked up at Harris, who was standing next to the bed, one hand on the small of his back.

“Tomorrow I’ve gotta go to work, and I have to do a lot of bending and lifting while I’m there. I’m a construction foreman.” He said that with a note of pride in his voice that surprised Spike. He’d never heard that from the whelp before. “And sleeping on the couch just about killed me last night. It’s comfy for tv-watching. Not so much for sleeping. There’s no way my back’s gonna make it at work if I’m there again tonight.”

Ah. So he was going to get rid of Spike, then. Spike wondered if he’d dump him back in the alley, or just stake him and be done with it.

“So I guess tonight we’re gonna bunk together.”

Spike stared at him, startled. He’d be willing to share his bed with Spike?

“At least you’re not gonna hog the blankets or complain when I snore.” Harris sighed. “But you’re still really gross, Spike. Dried blood, and…. No offense, but eww. Do you think you’re up to taking a bath? That oughtta get you clean, and then I can change the bedding, too. Okay?”

Spike tried to look down at himself, to assess how bad off he was, but he couldn’t see much and couldn’t move his head. His wounds felt better, though. The pain was less sharp. Experimentally, he tried to speak, but his voice wasn’t working yet. So he resorted to blinking again. A bath sounded nice.

“You want to eat first? Or after?” Spike just stared at him, unable to answer this with his eyes. “Oh. Sorry. Wanna eat now?” Long, slow blink. He wasn’t too hungry yet.

“Okay. After it is. I’m gonna go get the tub ready.”

He left, and Spike looked around the room as best as he was able. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a far sight better than that horrible basement the boy had once lived in. The walls were painted a light cream color and there were two framed prints of comic book characters. Batman and some bloke in red armor. There were heavy blue drapes over the window. A comfortable looking off-white armchair in one corner, a chest of drawers opposite the bed. And, on either side of the bed, small night tables with blue lamps. The closer one also had an alarm clock that read 10:48 am, and Spike realized he must have slept for a full day. A white ceiling fan was spinning slowly overhead.

Harris came back in the room. Only when he pulled the blanket off of Spike did the vampire realize he’d been tucked in.

“I’m gonna have to carry you. Sorry if this hurts.” Harris slowly worked his arms under Spike’s shoulders and legs and scooped him up. The boy was stronger than he’d thought. Construction work, perhaps.

Harris carried him in the loo. Spike’s head was lolling backwards so he couldn’t see much. White walls and a white vinyl floor. Then he was being lowered into the water.

“It’s pretty hot. Is that okay?” Spike blinked an affirmative. It was hot and it felt absolutely lovely, even on his wounds. He was surprised again at the boy’s solicitude.

“You soak for a while. I’m gonna go change the sheets.”

As soon as he left the room, though, Spike realized he was slowly slipping downwards. He couldn’t even move enough to stop himself, and soon he was completely submerged. Good thing he didn’t need to breathe, or he’d have drowned. As it was, he just looked helplessly up through the wavy surface of the water, waiting to be fished out. He wanted to scream with frustration, but of course he couldn’t do that, either.

It wasn’t too long, though, before hands grasped him under the armpits and pulled him upwards. He took a thankful breath.

“Jesus! I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Blinks.

“Christ. And this is why I am so not ready to have a kid. Not that that’s likely to happen anyway, because no girlfriend even, but still.” He grabbed a washcloth and soap, and started scrubbing Spike’s arms. “You never know. I mean, two days ago I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be bathing a vampire, and here I am. I’ll bet getting bathed by the Xanman wasn’t really on your to-do list either, huh? So you never know what might happen, especially here in Sunny-D.”

The boy babbled on for a while. Spike half-listened, enjoying even this one-sided conversation after being alone in silence for so long. While he talked, Harris cleaned Spike’s torso and groin—with more blushing—and legs, and then his arms and back. By the time he finished, the water was cold and filthy.

“Your hair. I don’t think I’m ever gonna get that clean. I’m gonna have to chop it off.”

Spike looked at him for a moment, then blinked. Wasn’t like he fancied dreadlocks anyway. Harris pulled the plug and let the water drain away, then turned the tap on again. As the tub filled, he went away again, this time first checking to make sure Spike was settled solidly.

He came back with a pair of scissors and turned off the water. “Barbering is not one of my many skills, I’m afraid. I’m just gonna sort of hack away.” And he did. It took him a long time, and when he was done Spike could feel that only a short stubble remained. Harris grabbed a cup from near the sink and poured water over Spike’s head, massaged in some shampoo, and then rinsed.

“Well, that’s cleaner, anyway. Good thing you can’t see in a mirror.”

 

Spike dozed most of the day. Harris wandered in periodically, often with a bag of blood and a straw in his hand, sometimes apparently just to check on him. With the kind of life the Scoobies lived, this probably wasn’t the first time the boy had had to care for somebody like this, but Spike was still amazed how good he was at it, and that he even bothered at all under the circumstances.

Harris talked to him as he fed him, and so Spike managed to glean some information throughout the day. Harris had been engaged to that demon bint but had broken things off. The witch had become very powerful—had become the big bad, for a time, in fact—and was now reforming. Buffy had died. Spike gasped at that bit of news. But of course now she was alive again, thanks to the witch. The Watcher was in England. Neither Buffy nor Harris had had any idea where Spike was. They’d thought he left of his own accord after Buffy had rejected him. Not that they’d likely have come running to his rescue even if they knew the truth, but it was somehow comforting to know they hadn’t deliberately left him in that demon’s hands. Tentacles.

By evening, Spike was feeling noticeably improved, and he could even manage a tiny creaking sound. But he still couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t move at all. He began to worry that whatever that demon did to him had permanently paralyzed him. That was such a terrifying thought that he immediately pushed it as deep as possible.

At 11pm, Harris appeared again. “I need to turn in. You need anything?”

Spike gave a single slow blink.

“Okay.” The human gently tugged at Spike until he was on one side of the bed instead of the middle. Then he pulled off his own trousers and shirt, threw them in the corner, and climbed into bed in his boxers. Spike got just a quick peek at his muscular chest, his slight vestiges of baby fat, and his tanned skin before he pulled the blankets over both of them and turned out the light.

He turned so his back was to Spike. “’Night,” he mumbled. Within minutes, his breathing had slowed. He was fast asleep.

Spike listened to him snore softly. He could feel the human’s heat radiating from his body, warming the air under the covers. It was pleasant.

If he ever got the bloody chip out, he decided, this human would be spared.

 

The alarm blared obnoxiously at 6:30. Vampires were not meant to wake up at that hour, and Spike eyed Harris blearily. The boy slammed his hand into the clock, groaned, and then rolled out of bed. Scratching sleepily at his arse, he wandered off to the loo. A few minutes later, Spike heard the toilet flush and the shower start running.

When Harris returned he was dressed in a suit and tie. He looked…well, like a man instead of a boy. He had two packets of blood in his hand. He opened one and stuck a straw in it, then placed the straw in Spike’s mouth.

“Are you gonna be okay while I’m at work all day?”

Spike blinked yes.

“I’ll be home around 4:30. You want me to leave the radio or something on?”

No. Spike intended to sleep all day again, allowing his body to continue to heal.

“All right.” He tossed the empty bag to the side and replaced it with the full one. When Spike had finished off, he pulled it away, too.

“So, uh, bye.”

“Ta.” It was barely more than a croak, but it was an actual word, and that was enormously gratifying.

Xander raised his eyebrows. “Um…you’re welcome. How do you say that in British?”

Spike managed a very small smirk. “You’re welcome,” he rasped and Harris actually smiled back.

 

“Hungry?” Harris had blood bags in his hands and yes, Spike was hungry. But this time he didn’t have to blink a reply.

“Yeah,” he said.

Harris fed him, then briefly inspected the wounds on his chest and belly. “These look a lot better. You’re not a see-through vamp anymore, and that’s good. Can you move at all?”

Spike had been trying, on and off, all afternoon. If he concentrated very hard he could just barely twitch his fingertips. Not much, but not nothing, and at least it suggested the paralysis might wear off.

“Hey, that’s great. You’ll be off committing mayhem in no time at all.”

Spike just looked at him.

“So, um, you ready to tell what did this to you?”

“Irene.”

“Huh?” Spike’s voice was still very faint, so Xander bent his head closer.

“Irene. Demon named Irene. Strong.”

“A demon named Irene. Oookay. What kind of demon?”

“Dunno. Ask the Watcher.”

“Giles? Why would he know?”

Spike didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to tell the boy that Giles had set him up. Harris probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. Let the Watcher explain.

“What’s the date?” Spike asked.

“September 16.”

“Year?”

“Fuck. How long did the demon have you, Spike?”

“Since I saw you last.”

Harris paled and sat in the armchair. “That was two _years_ ago.”

Spike swallowed thickly. Two years. Bloody hell.

“Was…was the demon hurting you the whole time?”

Again, Spike didn’t reply, but Harris must have seen the answer in his eyes. “Shit. Shit. Not even you deserve that.”

That was debatable, actually, but Spike didn’t argue the point.

“What did it want from you?”

“Fed from me.”

Harris’s eyebrows flew up. “Like a vampire?”

“No. It was…in my skull.”

The boy looked puzzled and he shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something when a phone rang in another room.

Spike listened to Harris’s half of the conversation.

“Yeah, he’s doing better. Still can’t move, though.”

“No, it’s not an act. He’s really bad off.”

“Yeah, he can.”

“A demon named Irene.”

“Irene.”

“I don’t know. He said to ask Giles.”

“I don’t know, Buff. That’s just what he said. I’m only the messenger.”

“No, no. Why don’t you wait a couple days, okay? Give him some more time to recover.”

“He says the demon’s had him this whole time, Buff. That’s a long time for anybody to be hurting.”

“I _know_. Still….”

“Yeah, okay, okay. How about Friday after I get off work?”

“Hey…do you think Willy’d give me more blood? If I dropped your name?”

“Okay. Bye.”

It sounded as if Harris had actually stuck up for Spike. The boy was full of wonders.

There were kitchen sounds—rattling cutlery and clanking plates and the ding of a microwave—and Spike caught the scent of tomato sauce. When Harris wandered back into the bedroom some time later, there was a spot of red on the corner of his lip, and Spike had to suppress a smirk. Wouldn’t do to antagonize his carer now, would it?

But as Harris approached the bed, the urge to take the piss went away, and was replaced by a something almost shocking: a small surge of lust. Because that sauce looked rather like blood, and Harris….

Well. Obviously two years of being molested by Irene had left scars.

“I’m gonna watch some tv. Do you want to? I could take you to the couch. But I still get custody of the remote, and you don’t get to complain about what we watch.”

Back in that basement, there had been some disagreements. Harris wanted nothing to do with _Passions_ or football, and Spike couldn’t stand that science fiction rot. But now was not the time to start a row, and a bit of telly might be nice.

“All right,” Spike said.

Harris drew back the covers and delicately took Spike into his arms again. Then he carried him to the living room and settled him on the sofa, even arranging a pillow behind his head so he could see the screen better. But then the boy frowned at him.

“Um…clothes. Not that I’m not an open-minded guy and everything, but clothes would be of the good. I guess you’ll have to borrow mine.”

He disappeared for a moment. Spike thought of the various hideous get-ups he’d seen in Harris’s wardrobe. He had a sudden memory of a Hawaiian shirt and would have shuddered had he been able. But the human came back carrying a reasonable-looking pair of gray sweatpants. He grinned at Spike. “I’m already a vamp-bather and a vamp-nurse, so now I guess I get to be a vamp-dresser, too.”

Moving carefully, he worked the fabric up Spike’s legs and then over his hips. He blushed again, and this time Spike found it a bit…charming. He rolled the top of the trousers down so that they weren’t in contact with the hole in Spike’s stomach. Spike could feel the clothing only around his crotch and waist—his legs were still numb—but it felt soft and warm.

“We should probably skip the shirt until you’re an un-holey demon again. But are you warm enough?”

“’M fine.”

The couch was brown leather and soft. Probably too soft for sleeping, but perfect for watching telly, just as Harris had said. There was very little other furniture in the place. The television itself on a large stand. Beyond that was the kitchen and eating area, which boasted a round table with three plain wooden chairs. The place was neat, though. No pizza boxes and dirty plates lying about like there had been in the basement.

Harris collapsed onto the floor in front of the sofa, leaning his back against the leather. He clicked on the telly, and for a while, he and Spike watched a police program in silence. During an advert, Harris got up and padded into the kitchen, toward the refrigerator. “Want a beer?” he called.

Spike blinked in surprise. “Erm, yeah. That’d be good.” Why was the Scooby being so bloody nice to him?

Harris came back with two open bottles. One of them had a straw in it, and he held it so Spike could sip. It wasn’t blood, of course, but it tasted almost as good in its own way. Harris set Spike’s bottle down and then chugged about half of his.

They worked their way through a couple more beers and another police program, and then Harris stood and stretched. “I’m done. I know it’s early by your standards, but you want to turn in? Or I could leave you here in front of the tv if you want.”

“No. More sleep would be fine now.”

“’Kay.”

He carried Spike back in and settled him gently in the bed. Spike heard him using the toilet and brushing his teeth, and then he came back in a pair of Simpsons boxers. Spike couldn’t help it—he laughed.

Harris looked down at himself and smiled. “Well, at least you’re amused by the cartoon, right? Not by—oh, never mind.” He crawled between the sheets and flicked the light off. “Spike?” he said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t a trick, is it?”

Spike sighed. “No. No trick. If I’d wanted to get you in bed with me I’d have found a way to manage it without getting skewered.”

Spike couldn’t see the boy’s face. He wondered if he was blushing again.

But Harris’s voice was teasing. “Are you suggesting that I’m easy, Spike?”

“Nah. I’d have had to be my most deviously persuasive, I’m sure.”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Cause you’re male. And vampire. A male vampire. Wouldn’t happen.”

“Oh? Seems to me you might have a thing for demons.”

“_Former_ demons. Former _female_ demons.”

“Ah.”

Harris was quiet for several minutes. Then, “Besides. You wouldn’t try to seduce me, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Also male.”

Spike chuckled softly. “And?”

“And…male.”

“Yeah?”

Another pause. “Are you saying you…?”

“Prefer the hens, myself, but I don’t mind a rooster every now and then. Like Angelus. Once we were—“

“Ack! No! No Angelus and—ugh. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Spike laughed again. “I’m just saying. I’m flexible.”

Xander groaned. “Good night!” he said decisively.

Spike grinned into the darkness. This wasn’t turning out as badly as he’d feared.

 

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/56012.html)


	3. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 3/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 3/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!  
 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER THREE**

 

By Friday, Spike’s injuries had closed, leaving not even a scar. His throat was completely healed as well. And, most importantly, most gratifyingly, he could move. Not well. Walking was still out of the question, so Xander had to carry him back and forth between the telly and the bed and the bath. Xander also had to pour his blood into a mug and heat it in the microwave for him. But at least then he could drink it on his own, without the sodding straw. And although Xander had to draw the bath for him, Spike could bathe himself—he wasn’t dirty any more, but the hot water still felt bloody good—and wasn’t in any danger of accidental submersion.

Spike would have been bored to pieces all week, if it weren’t for the fact that he’d spent the last two years chained to a rock, with periodic grope and torture sessions being the only excitement he’d had. By comparison, lying about Xander’s flat was heaven.

Xander was at work during the day, but in the evening they found an unexpected camaraderie. Sure, they still squabbled a bit over the remote, but neither of them really meant anything by it. Mostly they’d sit companionably together, sharing the couch, drinking beer and munching on crisps. They’d often laugh at the same stupid programs. Around 11 or so, Xander would take Spike back to the bed and they’d sleep. It was odd for Spike to be on a daytime schedule, but, since he wasn’t going outdoors anyway and Xander kept all the windows carefully covered, it didn’t particularly matter.

Xander was certainly a lot happier with Spike’s company than he had been in that basement. Part of that might be maturity—three years can make a big difference in a young human’s life. Most of it, though, was likely loneliness. The witch was gone, the demon girl was mostly out of his life, and the Slayer was busy with her own concerns. He didn’t seem to socialize at all with the blokes from work. Perhaps the whole patrolling and killing bit was hard to explain.

As for Spike, he never would have guessed he’d actually enjoy a human’s company, much less a Scooby’s, and even much less Xander Harris’s. But it was nice to have somebody to talk to. At least the boy was better to spend time with than Irene.

Friday evening Xander settled Spike on the couch and went to take a shower. He usually did after work. Spike would never admit it to the boy, but he rather wished he wouldn’t. He came indoors smelling so deliciously of sun and honest sweat and hot blood pumping just beneath his skin. He probably wouldn’t appreciate it if Spike told him so, though, and Spike still had best be careful he didn’t get thrown out on his arse.

Xander had just reemerged from the bedroom, his tousled hair still damp, when the doorbell rang. They both jumped a bit, then glanced at each other guiltily. That would be the Slayer, then.

Buffy flounced into the room with a scowl on her face and a stake in her hand. She stomped right past Xander and planted herself in front of Spike, waving the sharpened wood menacingly.

“What game are you playing this time, Spike?”

“Erm, Get Tormented by the Demon? Fun for the whole bloody family, innit?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and Xander came over to hover nearby.

“I talked to Giles,” she said.

This ought to be interesting. “Yeah? What’d old Rupert have to say?”

She turned to Xander. “Willow’s coming home.”

Xander looked surprised. “Oh? I thought she hadn’t quite made her way through all twelve steps, like maybe step eleven, sought through prayer and meditation not to skin people alive anymore.”

“Skinning alive? Reminds me of one time, me and Dru—“

“Shut up, Spike!” If vampires could be killed by looks alone, he’d be dust. “Giles says something bad is coming to Sunnydale. We’ll need her help.”

“Something bad? Like, say, the Macarena?”

“Remember that dream I had the other day?”

“’From beneath you, it devours.’”

“I think that’s the thing.”

“So if Giles knows so much, did he tell you what the thing is?”

She shook her head, and then she turned and glared at Spike. “But I’m thinking it’s a little coincidental, Spike suddenly showing up right when this devouring thing is all lurky.”

“Now, look, I have—“

“Could it be Irene?”

Now both Spike and Buffy looked at Xander. “You said she had you in a cave. Caves are underground sometimes, right? And she was…devouring.”

“I dunno if her cave’s under the ground or above it. Didn’t get a chance to see. But she’s nothing new, anyway. Been here at least two years, yeah?”

“I don’t think she exists.” Buffy crossed her arms.

“Buff, something chewed him up. You saw him yourself.”

“Giles said he sent Spike out on an errand a couple years ago—back when we were dealing with Glory—and Spike never returned. He figured he just took off. Not exactly Mr. Reliable, is he?”

Spike gritted his teeth. There was no point arguing with her—she’d never believe him over the Watcher. But Xander frowned.

“So maybe that’s when he got nabbed. Is that what happened, Spike?”

“Yeah,” Spike replied shortly. It was nice that Xander was trying not to doubt him, but why _should_ the boy trust him? Evil soulless vampire, right?

“He’s lying.”

“Then how’d he get hurt?”

“I don’t know. He came back to town—part of this devouring thingy—and something got him. Let’s face it, he doesn’t have a whole lot of friends, does he?”

Irene had said almost the same thing. They were both right. He didn’t have any friends at all, except…. No. None at all. Spike looked away, so he wouldn’t have to see the loathing on the slayer’s face, or the indecision on the boy’s.

He looked back, though, as Buffy came very close to him, her small frame managing to loom over his helpless body. He’d never felt so powerless in his unlife, not even when he was in the fucking wheelchair and Angelus was prancing around.

“So here’s the deal, Spike. You tell me what’s going on, and I stake you quickly instead of nice and slow.”

“Ooh. The Slayer’s threatening to stake me. That’s novel.” It was bravado, and she could probably tell.

She touched the pointed end of the wood against his bare chest, digging it in just enough to draw blood. “Now, Spike.”

He clumsily spread his arms wide. There was no way to avoid this train wreck. “Do it, then. I’ve got nothing to say.”

She set her lips in a tight line and started to push harder. It hurt. He wondered if hell would be worse than Irene’s tender care.

And then Xander was pushing her away, a trifle roughly. “Knock it off! This is my house and there’ll be no dusting!”

Spike took a deep breath and blinked at Xander.

“Xander, I—“

“No! That’s enough. I just finished putting him back together, so no taking him apart again.”

“Xander! This is Spike! William the Bloody, remember? Plotted against us how many times?”

“And yet I still don’t want him impaled on my couch.”

“Fine. Then I’ll drag him somewhere else.” She reached for Spike, and he was ashamed to find himself cowering away against the back of the couch.

But Xander caught her arm. “Buff. I think he’s telling the truth.”

Bloody hell.

Spiked gaped at him.

“He’s not—“

“Look. He can’t hurt anyone now, can he? He can’t even walk, Buff. Let’s see if we can find out some more details about the Big Bad du jour before we go swinging stakes unwisely, okay?”

Buffy glowered at both of them, but she lowered the weapon. “Fine. We’ll be information gatherers. And when we find out he’s a part of this, then I get to come back and mess up your couch. I’ll bring a dustbuster.”

Xander let out a puff of air. “Good. Let’s, uh…let’s go patrol, all right?”

She nodded.

“’Kay then. I just need to finish getting dressed. If I leave the two of you alone, are you gonna—“

“Fine! I’ll wait outside!” With a final dirty look at Spike, she clomped out the door, slamming it behind her.

Xander turned to Spike. “I hope you really are telling the truth, my friend, because trust me. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.”

“Why would you believe me, Harris?”

Xander shrugged. “Dunno. ‘Cause I’m an idiot.” He walked into the bedroom and returned a minute later with his shoes on and his hair combed.

“Need some blood before I go?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Okay. See ya.” Xander reached for the door.

“Xander?”

The human turned. “Yeah?”

“Ta muchly.”

Xander grinned. “Later.”

 

Buffy didn’t come back, but Xander did, slightly scuffed up from a run-in with some fledglings, but cheerful. They didn’t talk about what had happened earlier in the evening. Xander heated a mug of blood and handed it to Spike, and Spike didn’t complain once when Xander put on _Planet of the Apes_.

Several more days passed. Xander grew both excited and anxious as the witch’s arrival became more imminent. He was worried, too, about the mysterious danger. He went patrolling with Buffy a few more times, but she never came to his flat.

Spike grew gradually stronger, and eventually he could walk, and he did. He waited for Xander to tell him to leave, but Xander didn’t. Xander did buy him some clothes, though—some jeans and a couple black shirts and even a new pair of Docs.

Spike still hadn’t ventured outdoors. He wasn’t at full strength yet, and was loathe to encounter Buffy. Or Irene. Or any of the many other locals who might be delighted to find him in a weakened state. He admitted it to himself. He had nowhere else to go.

And then it was Monday, and Xander had skipped patrolling because Buffy had some school thing of Dawn’s to attend. Spike couldn’t believe they’d built the new Sunnydale High right over the ashes of the old one. Bloody stupid.

Spike was on the couch, watching a football match. Manchester United looked good to win the league this season. Xander came in from his shower, heated some leftover pizza, and plopped down on the other end of the couch.

“Ugh. No soccer!” he whined.

“Football, whelp.”

“That’s not football. In football somebody occasionally actually scores. This is a bunch of guys in shorts running around in the grass.”

“American football is a game for tossers who have to wear helmets and pat each other on the arse.”

“Whatever you want to call it, Spike, it’s crap. It’s boring. Turn the channel.”

Spike ignored him. Scholes came very close to scoring a goal.

“Spike! C’mon.”

Campbell had the ball for Everton now.

Xander put his plate down and lunged for the remote.

Spike moved his hand away, but he was still less than his usual demonically-quick self, and Xander managed to grab hold.

Spike held on.

Xander tugged.

And then they were tangled together on the floor, wrestling for the piece of plastic and laughing and knocking over an empty beer bottle.

And then the remote was suddenly forgotten as the wrestling turned into something else altogether.

They ground their pelvises together and their mouths together and moaned and clutched at one another and….

Froze.

They pushed away from each other and scrambled to their feet, both slightly crouched and breathing hard, staring at one another wide-eyed. Spike could tell from the stunned expression on Xander’s face that the same two realizations were going through his head as through Spike’s. First, that in another three seconds or so they would have been ripping each others’ clothes off. And second, that the chip hadn’t fired.

After a long moment of silence, Xander took a hesitant step toward Spike. Spike instinctively flinched back, then stopped and squared his shoulders. All right, then. This was the bit where Xander—

“Hit me.”

“What?”

Xander held up a hand. “Hit me!”

Spike blinked at him for a second, then drew back his fist. Not quite as hard as he could, he slammed the fist into Xander’s palm.

“Ow!” Xander fell back a half-step, shaking his hand.

Spike felt fine. Not even the tiniest twinge.

Xander stilled. He took a deep breath and then, softly but without a waver in his voice, said, “Just make it quick, okay?” And he tilted his head to the side.

Spike swallowed thickly and had to look away from the sight of that tanned, corded neck being exposed to him so invitingly. When he looked back, Xander’s eyes were closed.

“Berk! Not gonna eat you.”

Xander’s eyes snapped open and a confused frown creased his forehead. “But, you can…. The chip….”

Spike sighed. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I will.”

Xander relaxed a bit and straightened his head. “But…you….”

“You took me in. Cared for me. Let me sleep in your bed. Kept the Slayer from me. I may be a monster but I’m not ungrateful, luv.”

Xander nodded slightly. “Okay. But we were…on the floor, and….” He shook his head. “I’m not gay, Spike.”

“Never said you were.”

“But—“ Xander glanced down at his crotch, where a prominent bulge was still quite noticeable. Hmm. Even believing he was about to get bitten hadn’t cooled him off. Interesting.

“I’m irresistible, pet. Bent or straight.” He smiled, but not maliciously. “Besides, you’re what? Twenty-one? Haven’t had a leg over in ages, have you? You could probably get turned on by kitchen appliances.” As he said these words, Spike knew they were true, but found himself wishing they weren’t. Wishing the boy really did want him, specifically. He silently cursed himself for a fool.

Xander collapsed heavily onto one end of the couch. Somewhat warily, Spike sat on the other.

“So…the chip. What happened to it?”

Spike shrugged. “Dunno.”

“You didn’t know it wasn’t working?”

“’M as surprised as you.”

Xander stared at him, biting slightly on his lower lip. He looked Spike straight in the eyes and then nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I believe you.”

Spike felt muscles loosen that he hadn’t even realized he’d tensed. The boy still trusted him. Jesus.

“So what do you figure happened to it?”

Spike thought for a bit. “Perhaps when Irene was digging around in my gray matter she broke it. Huh. Maybe I owe the bitch a thank you.”

He could see Xander chewing on his hypothesis, turning it around a bit in his head. Finally, Xander said, “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

“Xander, I—“

The phone rang.

With an apologetic grimace, Xander got up to answer it. It was the Slayer. Xander mumbled distractedly at her as they apparently discussed Willow and her travel plans. Xander didn’t say anything to her about the chip.

As Xander muttered into the phone and fiddled with a pen that had been lying on the counter, Spike let the truth of his situation sink in. He was truly free now. Free to find the Watcher and pay him back for what he did to Spike, free to…destroy the closest thing to a father figure that Xander had.

Bugger.

All right, then. Free to hunt again, to feel the delicious thrill of hot, living blood in his mouth, the exhilarating writhing of his victim in his grip, the last stuttering beats of a heart pumping life into his body, the…the splintery agony of the Slayer’s stake into his chest.

So he’d kill her first. Yeah. He’d done it before, twice. Felt the electric buzz that only a Slayer’s blood could give. Sure, maybe at one time he was falling for her, but his time with Irene had, thankfully, allowed that ridiculous folly to slip away from him. He was over her. So over her, in fact, that now he found himself fancying someone else instead. Someone who actually seemed to have a bit of respect for him, someone who could believe in him in a way that Buffy never could. Someone who would never forgive Spike if Spike murdered one of his best friends.

He’d turn Xander, then. Of course. Boy would make a brilliant vampire, wouldn’t he? Beautiful and vicious and cruel and…nothing whatsoever like the human Spike wanted.

Perhaps he could promise not to prey on humans. Could just go on like he had been since the soldiers mindfucked him, getting his lust for violence out on demons instead. Could help the Scoobies, like. Earn his keep that way. Sure. That way he could even keep his eyes on Xander, make sure nothing nasty got to the boy.

Yeah. That was a good scheme.

Except the Slayer would never buy it, would she? Would never have faith in him to toe the line, not without an electronic leash.

Fuck.

Spike got up and went in the bedroom. By the time he’d slipped on his boots and gathered his meager belongings and shoved them in a plastic sack and walked back into the living room, Xander was hanging up the phone.

Xander frowned at him. “Spike?”

“Gotta go. Ta for…everything.”

“You can stay. I…I know you won’t kill me.”

Spike swallowed. This was harder than he’d thought. He hadn’t had to say many goodbyes in the last century and more. “Cheers, Xan. But I need to make myself scarce. The Slayer….”

“I won’t tell her about the chip, Spike.”

Bloody hell. Boy wasn’t making this any easier, was he? “I know you mean that, Xan,” he said softly. “But do you really mean to keep a secret like that from her? And from the witch, too, when she arrives?”

Xander opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. He knew Spike was right. “At least stay until you’re strong again.”

“’M strong enough to get by. I’ll lie low for a while.”

“Where will you go?”

Spike shrugged. He had no idea, actually. What did it matter anyway? “Might fancy a holiday in Old Blighty. Haven’t been in some time. Better climate for me than California, anyhow.”

Xander’s jaw clenched for a moment. “That’s where Giles is.”

“Oh.” He had forgotten that.

“Are you going to…do something to him?”

Spike sighed. “No. I’m not. Except stay well clear of him.”

“Did he do something to you, Spike? Set you up with Irene?”

For the first time since he’d been rescued, Spike lied. “No. He sent me on an errand, like he said. I expect he had no idea how dangerous Irene was. She looked like a harmless little human.”

“But when you didn’t come back?”

“He thought I’d left. Like Buffy said, I’m not exactly Mr. Reliable.”

Xander frowned some more and followed Spike to the door of the flat. Spike reached for the knob. “Thanks, Xander. You’re…quite a man, you know that?” He opened the door.

Spike was over 140 years old. He’d spent most of that time as a vampire, lurking in some odd places, and he’d seen some very strange things. But in all those years, nothing had surprised him as much as what happened next.

Xander Harris grabbed Spike’s shoulders and spun him around, and then pulled them together so their lips met and their teeth clacked together. Spike’s fingers went nerveless and he dropped the bag.

They wrapped their arms around one another, so close now they were nearly inside each others’ skin. Their tongues invaded each others’ mouths—mingled tastes of beer and blood and pizza—and they moaned and every cell in Spike’s dead body sang with want.

And then Xander pulled back a bit, gasping, and Spike was gasping, too. Gently, Spike extricated himself from the man’s grasp. Xander didn’t try to keep him. Spike bent slightly and picked up the bit of plastic.

“You’re quite a man, too, Spike,” Xander said.

 

[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/56092.html)


	4. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 4/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 4/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

Thanks to [](http://kotki-psotki.livejournal.com/profile)[**kotki_psotki**](http://kotki-psotki.livejournal.com/)  for the Polish help in this chapter!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER FOUR**

 

The prey was tall—taller than Spike by several inches—and thin and completely rat-arsed. He weaved unevenly down the pavement, occasionally pausing to gather his feet under himself properly. He was singing loudly, too, something tuneless and mostly unintelligible, but Spike thought it had something to do with la vida loca. Which was appropriate, in that this berk was about to experience la meurte loca.

The bloke came upon a lamppost and slung his arm around it like it was an old friend. He hung there for a moment and then, with a particularly noisy burst of lyrics, flung himself onward.

In the past, Spike never would have stooped to a victim like this. Too easy. He preferred something more sporting, maybe someone able to give him a short chase or a bit of a brawl. It whetted his appetite. But he still didn’t feel fully himself and he needed a good, quick feed.

He’d gone by Irene’s house first, meaning to kill the demon or dust trying. But he couldn't find her. The house had a “For Sale” sign in front, and, when he’d broken in through the back door, the place was empty. All the furniture and doilies and potted violets were gone, and there was no sign of where they or Irene were now.

So he’d stolen a car in Sunnydale and drove it until he ran out of gas, somewhere north of Fresno. Facing imminent sunrise, he’d found a dilapidated barn to hole out in for the day. Fortunately, adjacent to the barn was a herd of dairy cattle, so after the sun set again he’d snuck over for a meal on the hoof. Cow wasn’t as good as human, but it had filled his belly, and it had been very nice to sink his fangs into something living for the first time in several years.

He nicked a pick-up truck this time and drove it to Oakland. He’d been here before, and he knew there were plenty of places to hide, plenty of opportunities to hunt. He found an abandoned factory, littered with bits of broken machinery and shattered glass, and had had a nice kip in the former manager’s office. Not the best place he’d ever slept, but not the worst. He could always fix it up if he decided to stay.

When the sun set again, he took his stolen car a few miles north to Berkeley. It was a Saturday, always a good time to find an imprudent, pissed student or two. And sure enough, there one was, stumbling down Shattuck.

Spike emerged from the shadows and stood in front of the boy. “Hello, mate. Don’t expect you have a light, do you?”

The boy looked at him in drunken confusion. “Hey. You’re English.”

Spike nodded sagely at him. “That I am.”

“My friend Robert’s English. You’re not Robert.” He narrowed his eyes accusingly at Spike.

“Got me there, mate.”

The boy smiled triumphantly. “Hah!” He started to stagger his way around Spike, but the vampire shot out a hand and clutched at the bony shoulder.

“Do you have a flame? See, I’ve got this nice packet of Humboldt County’s finest and no way to smoke it.”

The bloke’s eyes grew round. “I got…. You willing to share?”

“Of course! Only fair, innit?”

The boy dug in his baggy jeans until he produced a blue plastic lighter, which he held up in triumph. “Look!” he said.

Spike took his arm and the boy didn’t resist as he led him down a side street and to the end of a darkened driveway, then around the back of a small, detached garage. As the boy waited expectantly, Spike drew closer, pretending to fish around in his trouser pocket. Spike vamped out and, before the boy had a chance to run or scream, Spike launched himself against him, pressing a firm hand against his mouth and backing him up against the splintery garage wall. He squirmed fruitlessly and looked at Spike with huge, terrified eyes. Spike could smell urine as the boy’s bladder emptied itself.

“Sshh,” Spike hissed into his ear. “This won’t hurt but a moment.”

He opened his mouth wide, getting ready to latch onto the jugular, which he could see pulsing so temptingly just below the surface of the boy’s white neck. But then he caught a whiff of the mingled scent of beer and pizza, and of course that reminded him of Xander. And suddenly, this stranger’s frightened face became Xander’s.

Spike leapt backwards.

The boy gaped at him, shocked into immobility.

“Well, go on, then! Bugger off before I change my mind.”

The boy emitted a tiny squeak and then took off quickly, clutching his wet and drooping trousers as he ran.

Spike looked up at the sky and roared in frustration.

 

He’d thought that perhaps it had been the boy’s similarity to Xander in age and gender that had caused the problem. So next he tried a middle-aged homeless woman he found sleeping in a doorway. Her rancid reek was nothing like Xander’s pleasant smell. But still, he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t manage any of the several other potential victims he encountered either. He just kept picturing Xander, the expression of contempt and anger and disgust he would have if he saw Spike feeding like that.

Eventually, Spike drove back to the factory. He stomped around inside, his empty stomach growling angrily. He growled along with it. This was bloody stupid! Xander was nothing to him. Why should he care what Xander would think? Besides, Xander had watched him walk out his door, knowing he was once again a fully potent vampire, and he hadn’t said a word about keeping his fangs out of humans. Hadn’t set his Slayer friend after him, either. And now Xander was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t know what Spike was doing anyhow.

Spike picked up a chunk of rusted metal and heaved it across the room. It landed on the cement with a satisfying crash, but that didn’t help his predicament one bit.

Who did Xander Harris think he was, crawling up in Spike’s head like Jiminy fucking Cricket?

He’d give that bastard what he bloody well deserved.

 

Getting to New York was easy. He simply stole a series of cars, abandoning each when the gas tank emptied. Some of them had items stuffed in the glove boxes or hidden in the boots that he was able to pawn for a little dosh. He slept in derelict buildings and fed off of livestock.

It had been a few decades since he was in New York, but he knew where the demons hung out. He used a combination of sweet talk and intimidation to get himself smuggled aboard an eastbound ship. He brought a cooler of packaged blood with him, but three days into the five day trip the cooler was empty and he was hungry. So he took an old page from Angel’s book, eating rats. They were disgusting and not very satisfying. No wonder Angel was such a broody sod.

He hadn’t been to Europe in years, but he didn’t take the time to sightsee. In Lisbon he found another ship bound for Luanda. More rats.

Avoiding the sun in Africa was a challenge. Not so many places to hide, and with his particular pallor he certainly stood out among the locals, many of whom were more willing to believe in supernatural creatures than were the skeptical humans in the United States. Still, he managed, hiding under piles of refuse or in the backs of vans or even, when necessary, just burying himself in the dirt. At least there were tastier animals to eat than vermin.

In a matter of days he made his way to Uganda and to his destination. He’d heard about the place from other vampires, sort of a ghost story demons used to scare each other before they retreated to their dark corners for the day. He never thought he’d seek this place out himself, but his unlife was full of surprises.

The trials were difficult. But he was strong by now and if he’d survived twenty years with Angelus and two with Irene, he could certainly manage whatever this beasty threw his way.

The return of his soul, though--that was agony. Over a century’s worth of vicious bloodshed coming home to roost all at once. He found a cave far from people and spent weeks there, living off of animals and crying and howling at the moon like the lunatic he was.

And when he gathered the shreds of sanity about himself once more, and began to contemplate how he would get himself back around the world again, he came to a realization.

He couldn’t go back to Xander.

Not because of the Slayer. She might be willing to accept a vampire with a soul. She’d fallen in love with one herself.

And not because of Xander. Spike had felt something when they kissed, something that suggested the contact was more than just lust. The boy had real feelings for him, and Spike was pretty certain that with patience, those feelings could develop into something meaningful. Xander wanted him now. In time, perhaps Xander could love him.

But therein lay the problem. Spike understood now that, soul or not, he was still a demon. No matter how much he loved Xander, no matter how hard he tried to be something he wasn’t, Spike would, inevitably, hurt him. It was the nature of a demon.

Ironically, the same soul that made a relationship with Xander seem a possibility also forbade him from pursuing it.

 

He took that tour of Europe after all.

It was nice. Some places had bad enough memories that he avoided them altogether. London. Prague. All of Romania. Others had more pleasant associations, though, and some of them he hadn’t visited since the second world war. He spent many months wandering the continent, stopping here and there for days or weeks at a time. He mostly kept to the larger cities, where it was easier to disappear into a crowd of strangers, and where there were places for the nocturnally-inclined to amuse themselves.

And he did amuse himself. All these cities had demon populations, and there were bars and clubs he could go to where nobody would notice, or at least nobody would care, that he was a vampire. He’d hustle pool or play poker, winning enough to rent a little flat and buy alcohol and cigarettes. Most of the bars sold blood, too, and his newly restored conscience didn’t worry much about where it came from. Sometimes he even found human donors, those who had become addicted to the bite, or those who were willing to trade a half pint of the red stuff for a back-alley blowjob. It made him a whore, he knew, but the truth was he enjoyed the occasional contact with another body nearly as much as the meal.

He saw the sights and bedded the pretty boys and girls and when he got bored or restless, he stuffed his belongings in a small sack and moved on.

One cold January night in Krakow he was wandering the Kazimierz district when he heard a small scuffle between some buildings. He poked his head in and saw a pair of game-faced vampires playing with their food, a rough-looking bloke in his thirties. He’d been banged up a bit already, and one of the vamps, a skinny male, was holding him still and muffling his cries with his arm. Meanwhile, a female with stringy hair was licking playfully at the blood on his cheek.

“Dobry wieczór,” Spike said cheerily. His Polish was rudimentary but, then, he didn’t need to have a deep conversation with this lot.

The female spun around toward him. With a hiss she came at him, her clawed hands raised. He smiled and didn’t bother to drop his fangs. But when she sprang at him, he grabbed back and, in one neat movement, snapped her neck. He dropped her to the ground and, as she lay gasping, seized a stake from his back pocket and slammed in through her heart.

Always paid to be prepared, didn’t it?

The male let go of his prey and rushed toward Spike, spewing a gush of incomprehensible words.

“Sorry, mate. Nie rozumiem.” Spike delivered a healthy kick to his solar plexus. The vamp fell back but quickly leaped back to his feet, snarling.

Spike hadn’t had a good brawl in ages. So he drew this one out, allowing his opponent to get in an occasional blow, carefully not doing anything particularly lethal back. He grew bored, however. This one was hardly more than a fledge, and certainly not much of a challenge. “Do widzenia,” Spike said, and drove his stake through his heart.

Spike brushed the dust off himself and looked around him. The would-be meal was cowering against a brick wall. He didn’t look badly injured, but Spike wasn’t sure. He took a few steps closer.

“Odejdź! Nie, zostaw mnie! Błagam!” the man cried.

Spike looked at him blankly. “English, mate.”

The man shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He held them toward Spike. “Here! Take, please. I not give trouble. Please!”

Bemused, Spike took the money and shuffled the edges. It was about 400 złoty. A cheap price for saving a man’s life. Still, he didn’t particularly need the money right now, so he pulled off just a few bills and shoved the rest back in the man’s shaking hand.

“Here,” he said. “Go buy yourself some vodka. You look like you could use a drink.”

The man stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed, and then ran away. Spike chuckled and continued his walk.

Back in his tiny room early that morning, he sipped at some Siwucha of his own and thought about the evening’s encounter. It had been fun. Even with the soul, he couldn’t say he particularly cared whether blokes like the one tonight ended up as somebody’s dinner, but it was a good way to pass the time. He’d had a bit of a tussle, but in a manner that would have made any of the Slayerettes happy. He could have even made a serviceable profit off the deal, had he been so inclined.

Perhaps…perhaps he could do this more often.

Of course, that made him think of Captain Forehead, and Spike groaned loudly. He wasn’t turning into that prancing nancy-boy, was he?

 

For the next few months, Spike played hero, snatching various innocents from the jaws of death. He stuck mostly to countries where he spoke the lingo, so he could at least banter interestingly with the nasties before dispatching them, and then understand their quarries’ quavering thank-yous. Some of the victims escaped during the fight. Some were too badly injured to do anything. But some gave him money, and a few prostitutes paid him in trade.

So that was all right.

But he eventually realized that it wasn’t enough. Oh, it wasn’t that he was setting out to redeem himself for his past sins. He didn’t think there were enough demon attacks in all Europe to accomplish that. Besides, rescuing a few people here and there wasn’t going to do anything to bring back the thousands of people he’d killed. They were all going to stay quite dead.

So the problem wasn’t atonement. It was loneliness. He’d never had to spend much time alone, and he was bloody awful at it. He brooded worse than the pouf. But none of the people he rescued were particularly keen to give more than a hurried “Merci, danke, gracias,” to the fanged creature they’d just seen rip other monsters apart, and they beat a hasty retreat. And it would be difficult to get on friendly terms with other humans, once he tried to explain the sunlight aversion and funny taste in beverages. “Oh, but I have a _soul_,” he could explain, as they either ran screaming away or smiled fixedly while wondering how far it was to the nearest lunatic asylum. What did that leave? Other demons? They weren’t really his crowd any longer, were they?

In fact, the only people who were likely to let him anywhere near them for any length of time had been in Sunnydale. And he’d heard some time ago that Sunnydale was gone—turned into a giant crater. He’d been devastated, imagining Xander as ashes at the bottom of an enormous hole. But he’d done a bit of listening in on the demon grapevine and learned that most of the Scoobies, Xander included, had relocated to Scotland, where they were leading some sort of Slayer army. Apparently, the Chosen One had somehow multiplied into the Chosen Several Hundred. Not a good spot for a vampire, even a recently re-souled one. Besides, he’d sworn to stay away from Xander.

So there was nowhere to go.

Except…Los Angeles.

Bloody hell.

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/56761.html)


	5. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Irene, Chapter 5/8** _

**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 5/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER FIVE**

 

“Posh digs you’ve found yourself.”

“You!” Angel jumped up from his chair, nearly toppling it over.

“Me.”

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“Harm let me in. She and I go way back, you know.” It had been startling to find her sitting at the reception desk, actually, nearly as startling as discovering that Angel had somehow managed to become the head of an evil law firm. She’d squealed and given him a big hug, then remembered she was angry at him and slapped him instead. But she hadn’t stopped him from stepping into Angel’s office.

Angel stalked around his desk and loomed over Spike. “What the fuck do you want, William?”

He said the name with as much venom as he could muster, but Spike only gave him his most charming smile. “I came to help.”

Angel came a half-step nearer, and now he was almost touching Spike. His hands were opening and closing as if he were imagining wrapping them around Spike’s neck. “Why the hell would you think I—“

“Thought a second besouled vamp might come in handy. Two heads are better than one and all that.”

“What the fuck are you—“ Angel’s eyes grew very round, then narrowed. “You’re lying,” he said flatly.

Spike shook his head. “No. Got a soul now, good as yours. Better, because mine wasn’t a curse. I _fought_ for mine.”

Angel glowered at him for a few moments, and then perhaps saw the truth in Spike’s face, because he relaxed a bit and took a couple of steps backwards. “How?” he demanded.

“Africa. Demon. Cave. Trials. You know the story.”

Angel pondered this for a moment.

“Why?”

Spike had known that question would come up, assuming he managed to get this far without getting pounded. He didn’t want to tell Angel the truth, but he never was a good liar, so he’d decided to settle for part of the tale. “There was…someone I cared for. A human. Knew a human would never have me evil, so….” He shrugged.

The death glare was back. “You did this for Buffy?”

So somebody had told his grandsire about that little indiscretion. “No. Not Buffy. Got over her quickly.”

Spike wondered if anyone had bothered to tell Angel about Irene, too. Probably not. Why would they?

Angel sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms on his chest. “When did this happen?”

“Nearly two years ago.”

“Right after you left Sunnydale.”

“Yeah.”

“And since then?”

“Took the soul a while to settle. Went a bit mad for a while. Then…I’ve just been hanging about. Seeing Europe. Only got back in the States the other day.”

“They’re not here anymore, you know. Buffy, the rest. Sunnydale—“

“Yeah, I heard. Boom.”

“Is _that_ why you were in Europe?”

Spike sighed. “Peaches, I haven’t seen any of that lot since I left Sunnydale. Don’t expect any of them are all that anxious to see me, either.”

“Then what about this human you got the soul for?”

“Not gonna happen. ‘M still a vampire, yeah?”

Angel gave him a long, considering look. “Then why are you here, Spike?”

“Told you. To help.”

“But _why_?”

Spike tried not to sound exasperated. “Because I want to be useful. Because I have no place else to go.” Well, that just sounded pathetic.

Angel shook his head. “Don’t need you. Can’t use you.”

“Why? You know I’m a bloody good fighter.” Spike pretended as if Angel’s words hadn’t hurt.

“Yeah, you’re fine, until a human comes along, and then you’re useless.”

“Are you fighting humans now?”

Angel shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Interesting. Spike mulled this over in his head and then said, “Chip’s gone.”

Angel jumped up again. “What?”

“Chip’s gone.”

“How?”

Christ, were they going to play another round of twenty questions?

“Four years back. Got captured by a nasty little demon. She…did things to my head. For a long time. Nearly dusted me. After I got loose, that’s when I learned the chip wasn’t working anymore.”

“Does Buffy know?”

Spike threw up his hands in frustration. “Does everything have to be about the sodding Slayer? I left Sunnydale as soon as I found out, so no, she doesn’t know.”

Angel rubbed one hand against his temple. “So even though you were free to kill again, you got yourself a soul?”

“Yeah.”

“She must have been one special girl.”

Spike sneered a little. “Never said it was a girl.”

Angel’s eyebrows shot up.

Spike walked back to the couch and threw himself down in it. He was tired. Exhausted. Getting back to the US hadn’t been an easy task. If Angel turned him down, he had no idea where he’d go next or what he’d do.

Angel walked back around his enormous, obviously over-compensating-for-something desk, and sank into his chair. He leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head.

“What do you expect to be able to do here, Spike? This is a law firm.”

“Yeah. And you’ve had years of legal training yourself. What happened to battling evil? Taking a bite out of crime?”

“We’re still doing that. Just…in a different way.” Spike didn’t think he was imagining a slight defensiveness in Angel’s demeanor.

“Look, mate. For once, get your head out of your arse and think. I expect you’re up against some difficult challenges here, yeah? Just let me help. Isn’t another ally a good thing?”

Angel stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, then leaned forward and picked up his phone. He punched in a few buttons. “Hey. Could you come to my office? I need you to do something for me.”

Neither of them said anything as they waited, just looking at each other. Spike wondered who he’d called. Security?

It wasn’t too long before there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” shouted Angel.

A demon walked it. He was tall and thin, with green skin, red horns and eyes, and a Technicolor suit. “Hey, Angelcakes. What’s up?”

Angel gestured towards Spike, and the demon startled slightly. Obviously, he hadn’t realized Spike was in the room. “Oh, hey! Who’s this blond bombshell?”

“Spike, sing.”

Spike frowned at him. What? Had the old pouf gone mad? “What is this? A sodding audition?”

Angel rolled his eyes impatiently. “Just sing something. Anything. Doesn’t matter what.”

The green demon was looking at him expectantly, so Spike shrugged. All right. Whatever made him happy. He launched into a Sex Pistols song:

_I don’t want a holiday in the sun_

_I want to go to new Belsen_

_I want to see some history_

_‘Cause now--_

“Whoa! That’s plenty, tiger.” The demon held his hand up, and Spike silenced. The demon turned to Angel. “You never told me there was another vamp-with-a-soul, and a family member at that.”

Angel scowled so mightily you could hardly see his eyes under the overhang of his brows. “I just found out myself, Lorne. Can you just tell me—“

“He’s sincere, pumpkin. Let him join us. We can use him.” Now Lorne turned back to Spike. “Slim, you have a couple scores you want to settle, don’t you? And that soul of yours is going to stay restless until you find your boy. Don’t wait too long. You may be immortal, but he’s not.”

Angel stood. “Thanks, Lorne.”

“No problemo. I’ll leave you two to chat about old times.” He gave Spike a little salute and left. Spike was left gaping stupidly at the door. What the hell was _that_?

But now Angel stood in front of him, his arms crossed. “All right. We’ll try this. But if you’re a pain in the ass, I’m gonna stake you myself.”

Spike smiled happily at him. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

 

Working with Angel was interesting, at least. There was always something going on, and at times Spike watched, fascinated, as Angelus stirred just beneath the surface. Seeing Harmony again was trying, especially when she wouldn’t understand why he didn’t want to renew their relationship. But Angel’s other friends—the former Watcher, Charlie-boy, Lorne, and the lovely Fred--treated him well, albeit warily. Wolfram &amp; Hart itself was pure evil, though, and Spike felt it eating away at his soul like acid, and wondered how much damage it had already done to his grandsire.

Spike’s relationship with Angel wasn’t any easier than it had ever been. Angel couldn’t seem to stand the sight of him, and Spike couldn’t stop himself from needling the git like he always had. In fact, things became even worse when Spike was duped into thinking he did have a chance at redemption, because surely that would make him worthy of Xander, right? But it was all a hoax, and it turned out Spike was just a pawn in a game that wasn’t even about him.

After that, Spike gave up. He continued going through the motions, carrying through with whatever errands Angel sent him on, but he couldn’t bring himself to particularly care whether he got dusted. When Angel didn’t need him he spent his time in his depressing little flat, downing whatever liquor he could get his hands on and staring blankly at the telly. When Fred was…inhabited…by Illyria he sparred with the blue goddess, half-hoping that she’d forget her own strength and just finish him.

Then he and Angel went to Rome, ostensibly to pick up a demon body. But Angel was mostly going because Buffy was rumored to be there, with that wanker the Immortal, yet. And although Spike didn’t mention it to anyone, he rather hoped that if Buffy was there, Xander would be as well. But they’d barely caught a glimpse of Buffy, and nothing at all of Xander.

When they returned to LA, Angel seemed completely defeated, slumped on the edge of his desk as if every one of his years was a stone on his shoulders. Spike slouched next to him, silent and pensive. They were only a foot apart from each other, and yet each was so alone.

After a long time, Angel sighed and stood. “I’m beat. I think I’m gonna go take a nice long bath.”

“Brilliant.” Spike had meant to sound sarcastic, but perhaps came across more as wistful, because Angel cocked his head and looked at him intently.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Spike shrugged. “Dunno. Was thinking about finding a bar and getting pissed, but maybe I’ll just go home. ‘M knackered as well.”

Angel’s brow furrowed. “You still staying in that apartment Lindsey set you up in?”

“Yeah.” Even after “Doyle” had proved a fake, Spike just couldn’t be arsed to move.

Angel pursed his lips. “That’s a ways away from here.”

“I can make it before sunrise.”

“No, I meant….” He sighed again. “C’mon up. You can crash at my place. You can even get drunk if you want.”

Spike stared back at his grandsire for a few moments. Thought about saying something flippant. But there was something oddly vulnerable about the older vampire right now, so instead Spike nodded. Angel’s tensed shoulders loosened up a notch, and they made their way into the lift.

Spike had intruded into Angel’s flat once or twice over the past few months, and once he’d snuck up there while Angel was busy elsewhere, just to have a good poke about, but he’d never actually been invited. Angel was strangely formal now as he asked Spike to sit on his sofa, and then brought him a tumblerful of whiskey before settling next to him with his own drink. They sipped in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.

Spike put his empty glass down and was going to head back to his own flat anyhow, when Angel turned to him. “Your apartment doesn’t have a tub, does it?”

Spike blinked at him. “Erm, no.” It had a mildewy shower with cracked tiles and crap water pressure.

“You want to use mine? I know you like—I remember. You always used to like hot baths.” He didn’t meet Spike’s eyes, instead looking down at his feet. He was right; Spike had always enjoyed a nice soak.

“Ta. That’d be nice.”

Angel refilled Spike’s glass and Spike trailed after him into the bathroom. Angel pointed out the clean towels, and Spike managed to restrain himself from commenting on the large array of hair products that were arrayed over the sink, where most people would have a mirror. Spike thanked him again and then Angel left, shutting the door behind him.

Spike turned on the tap and poured in a good drizzle from a clear glass bottle that was at the bath’s edge. The room filled with the scent of lemongrass and ginger, and thick bubbles formed above the water. Spike chuckled to himself. It figured that the big ponce had bubblebath. As the bath filled, Spike stripped. It was nice to get out of clothing that felt dusty and grimy after their travels. Then he stepped into the steaming water and lay back with his eyes closed, nearly groaning with pleasure. As far as he was concerned, indoor plumbing was one of the greatest inventions of all time.

Eventually, he sat up a bit so he could drink his whiskey. When it was gone, he shouted, “Oi! Peaches!”

The door swung open a moment later. “What?”

“Could I get another?” Spike grinned at him and waved his glass.

Angel rolled his eyes, but he went and fetched the decanter, and poured a generous amount into the tumbler. Then he just stood there, looking big and awkward, until Spike pointed at the edge of the bath. “Sit,” he ordered and, to his surprise, Angel did.

“Liam? Why don’t you just quit this place? It’s killing you, mate.”

“I’m already dead.”

Spike shook his head. “You have friends here, you know? Percy, Charlie, Lorne—they’d follow you if you left. You could go back to skulking the streets like you used to.”

“Would you follow me?”

“Yeah. I reckon I would.”

“Why, Spike? I mean…none of us are really your friends.”

Spike tried to bite back the hurt. “I know,” he said softly.

“You don’t believe in Shanshu anymore, and I know you don’t like this place. Why haven’t you left? Is it the cars? Or just that you like bugging me?”

“Right.” Spike abruptly slammed his glass down and stood. Still dripping water and bubbles, he stepped out of the bath and across the room to grab his dirty kit.

But Angel caught his arm. “Wait! I’m…I’m sorry.” He ran his free hand over his eyes. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

Spike stood there, his jaw set angrily.

Angel looked up at him. “Look. Things…things are gonna get really ugly around here real soon. You might want to take off.”

“’M no coward.”

Angel shook his head. “No. I never thought you were. But this isn’t really your fight, is it?”

Spike lifted his chin. “Is it a good fight? Is it worth it?”

“Yeah.” Angel nodded. “I think it is.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

He was wondering whether he was imagining the relief that flashed across Angel’s face, when the other vampire lurched to his feet and released his arm, but then grasped his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss.

At first Spike was stiff and unyielding, suspecting this was somehow a trick. But Angel’s lips were soft against his, and he tasted of blood and whiskey, and the scent of his grandsire was overwhelming this close. So he relaxed a bit and leaned forward, finally wrapping his arms around Angel’s waist. Surprisingly, Angel didn’t even complain about the dampness on his silk shirt, but instead deepened the kiss, gently pressuring Spike’s lips farther open with his tongue and then thrusting his tongue inside.

This was probably a mistake, Spike realized. But gods, he needed it, and by the looks of things, so did Angel. So he allowed Angel to lead him gradually towards the bedroom. Somehow by the time they got there Angel was as bare as he was. Angel pushed him down on the bed—or perhaps he pulled Angel with him, he wasn’t sure—and then they were writhing against each other, hungrily mapping one another’s bodies with hands and mouths.

They had done this once before, right after their last trip to Rome, in fact, when they’d both been smarting over losing the girls to the Immortal. The birds had flown back, eventually, sated and glowing, with small, secret smiles on their faces. The taste of it had been bitter for Angel and Spike, especially after the Immortal had so off-handedly dealt with them. So when Dru and Darla had gone off together one evening to reminisce and giggle, Angel and Spike had become pissed on absinthe and gin, and they’d sought some form of solace in each others’ bodies.

This was different. They were a hundred years older, both carrying another century’s worth of pain and loss. And they both had souls. It’s not as if Spike had been emotionless before the soul, but now everything he felt was deeper, and more complex, like when you put on the special glasses to watch a 3-D film.

Angel’s weight atop him was welcome, more comforting than smothering. “What do you want?” Angel whispered huskily in his ear.

He could have answered that in a great many different ways. But his eventual answer was as honest as any: “Fuck me, Angel. I want you to fuck me.”

Angel did not have any slick. He did, however, have a bottle of poncy, expensive hand lotion, which smelled of mint and which he no doubt used for wanking. He squirted a generous amount on his hand and used it to prepare Spike. He wasn’t too gentle about it, nor did he dawdle over the task, but that was all right with Spike, who wasn’t in the mood for careful preparations. Spike bent his knees and spread his legs, opening himself up, offering himself to his grandsire. Angel growled and spread more lotion on his cock, and then drove inside in a single hard thrust. Spike cried out. Angel pistoned into him, hard, deep, and fast, and Spike was tangled in an exquisite web of pleasure and pain. When Angel wrapped a huge hand around Spike’s dripping cock and tugged at it in rhythm with the pounding of his hips, Spike was lost, and he howled and came so hard he barely noticed when Angel gasped his own climax out a few moments later.

They fell asleep entwined in Angel’s bed, allowing themselves to be temporarily lulled into a sense of security and belonging.

When Spike woke early that afternoon, Angel was gone, no doubt in his office below, signing stacks of contracts and trying to convince himself he was still saving the world. But the remote control had been left at Spike’s bedside, and a thermosful of warm otter blood, and a packet of Wheetabix. Spike spent nearly all day in Angel’s bed, breathing in the lingering scents of the two of them together. In the late afternoon, though, he showered and put his soiled clothing back on, and then nicked a car and drove back to his empty, shabby flat.

They didn’t shag again. But when it seemed to everyone that Angel really had gone over to the other side, and then Angel asked for their faith and support, Spike was the first to raise his hand. And when the battle arrived, and all seemed hopeless, Spike flew into the fray with as much enthusiasm as he’d felt in years.

They won the battle. Sort of. The demons were defeated that day, in any case. But Wesley and Charlie died and Illyria was destroyed, and Lorne left after killing Lindsey. And the next morning, there was only a new evil to face.

Spike remained with Angel for another year or so, fighting side by side but sleeping separately. Then Angel met a woman. Emmaline. Blonde, of course, and pretty and strong, and with a sordid past of her own that Spike never did know the details of. She accepted that Angel was a vampire. Angel found a witch who was pleased to nail his soul on for good. Spike could have stayed, but he felt like a third wheel, and in the end he decided to return to Europe.

“You don’t have to go,” Angel said, watching Spike throw a few things in a bag. “I need your help.”

“No, you don’t, mate. You’ll do fine without me.”

“Spike, I don’t—“

“It’s all right. I…I’m not what you need. Never will be.” He stopped in front of Angel, who was hovering anxiously near the door. “You and your girl be happy, yeah?”

Angel nodded. “William…thank you. For…for everything, okay?” He looked down at the floor for a second, and that back up, into Spike’s eyes. “You’re worth a lot more than anyone gives you credit for. Even yourself. Find someone who can see that, all right?”

Spike crooked the corner of his mouth, nodded, and left.

 

[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/57060.html)


	6. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 6/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 6/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

Extra chapter tonight because [](http://emilygoober.livejournal.com/profile)[**emilygoober**](http://emilygoober.livejournal.com/)deserves a little pickmeup!

[Previous chapters here.](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Irene&filter=all)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER SIX**

 

“Another?”

Spike looked down at his glass, empty save for a slight scum of suds. “Nah, mate.” He threw some bills down on the bar and walked out into the night.

It was raining out, thin, stinging drops, and he turned his collar up for the small protection it gave his neck. He’d be soaked by the time he got back to his flat anyhow, so he didn’t bother to hurry as he wandered up the street. There were no people about. It was as if they’d given up the city to the dead that night; not only him, but also the ghosts that seemed everywhere. Except they weren’t truly ghosts, were they? They were merely the phantoms that haunted his own brain, now stirred to action by achingly familiar surroundings.

He turned onto West Cromwell and then, a couple blocks later, onto a street that was hardly more than an alley, and there he was in front of his own building. He had a bedsit in the basement, small and dank but relatively cheap. He let himself inside and then started shedding clothes until he was completely nude. He left the clothing in a wet pile by the door and went into the tiny loo, where he toweled his hair nearly dry. He headed then to the kitchen area and put a flame under the kettle. He didn’t seem to be capable of stepping foot in this bloody country without suddenly needing a cuppa.

He stared at nothing while he waited for the water to heat. Thought about walking across the flat to fetch his cigarettes from his jacket pocket, but decided that was too much effort. Ran a hand across his belly, fingertips through the curly hair at his groin, but then a wank seemed like too much work as well, and he allowed his hand to drop limply at his side.

What the hell was he doing here? He could be someplace warm and dry. Spain, perhaps, or Greece. Ah, but he’d been there, hadn’t he, and nearly everywhere else in Europe as well. Roaming from place to place over the last decade, never staying anywhere very long. He earned his blood and bed as he had before, getting rid of nastier sorts of demons like some kind of supernatural pest control service. If evil was scarce, he’d even take a proper job now and then, getting paid under the table to work security or tend bar. Once he’d spent nearly a year in Copenhagen, teaching Latin and English to a Krelyk demon’s children. He’d never fancied himself a tutor before, but it hadn’t been a bad gig, really. Krelyk spawn learned quickly and were infinitely more respectful than human kiddies.

But no matter where he was, he’d felt like a visitor. No place was home. And, whether the locals were pleasant or hostile or indifferent, they were never friends. So, against his better judgment, he’d ended up back here, in London. He knew how stupid that was. The Watchers Council was here, for one. He’d managed to keep clear of them so far, at least. Scotland was temptingly close as well. Not that anyone of importance to him was still there, necessarily. For all he knew, they were all dead. Battling big bads day in and day out was dangerous work.

The kettle interrupted his musings with a shrill whistle, and he emptied the steaming water into the teapot. The scent of Russian Caravan wafted up, smoky and good. He allowed it to steep for a few minutes, and then poured some into a chipped yellow and white cup. He took a sip, not caring that it burned his tongue. He’d mend quickly enough.

He was about to sit at the single chair beside his miniscule table when he heard footsteps outside the door, and then a double knock, firm and loud. Nobody ever called on him and it was far too late for salesmen. He thought about ignoring it, but his curiosity got the better of him. He was grimacing and pulling on his still-damp jeans when the pounding came again. “All right! Coming. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

With a scowl on his face he yanked the door open. Rupert Giles was standing there, scowling right back. He looked older than last Spike had seen him, of course, but the years had settled well on him. He pushed past Spike and into the flat, standing close enough that he seemed to tower over Spike, close enough to drip cold water onto Spike’s bare torso.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Giles spat.

“Was just having some tea,” Spike replied mildly, gesturing at his abandoned cup.

“I’m in no mood for games!”

“Oi! You come barging into _my_ home, after what you put me through, and you yell at me?” Spike was trying very hard to control his temper. Somebody ought to give him a bloody medal.

The man didn’t back off. “Whatever scheme you’re plotting, Spike, it isn’t—“

“There’s no sodding scheme! My being here is nothing to do with you, or the Watchers Council, or any of your lot.”

“You’re lying.”

Spike growled, felt the bones in his face begin to shift and his fangs descend…and then he relaxed and turned away. He went over to the table and sat and wrapped his hand around his cup. Giles glared at him.

“Look. You want to stake me? Stop finding excuses and just bloody do it. Only remember: I never did you any real harm, not even when I had no soul, and you sent me off to two years in hell. Lied about it after to your precious Slayer. Which of us is the real monster?”

“You’ve murdered thousands.”

“I have. ‘S what vampires are meant to do, innit? But how about you, human? I’ll wager your hands aren’t completely clean.” Giles flinched almost imperceptibly and Spike knew he’d struck home. “Yeah, I expect you have plenty of reasons for the wrongs you’ve committed, haven’t you? All’s fair, ends justify the means, all for the greater good, yeah? And deep inside you know all those rationalizations are rubbish.” He swallowed some tea.

Giles’s fingers twitched and his jaw worked. Finally, he snarled, “I want you gone by tomorrow night.”

Spike released a bark of laughter. “Think I bloody care what you want, Watcher? This is my home. Lived here nearly a century before your father forgot to pull out in time. I’m not doing anybody any harm here, so bugger off.”

“Council headquarters is a mile from here. Do you think you’re immune because you have a soul now?”

Spike had another sip, and then answered quietly, “No. No, I don’t.”

“Why are you here, Spike?”

Spike jumped to his feet and roared, “Because I’ve nowhere else to bloody go, twat!” and hurled his cup at the wall. It exploded, leaving a brown stain on the whitish paint and a wide circle of broken crockery on the tiled floor. Then he stood with his back to the man, waiting for a stake to slip between his ribs. Instead, he heard the door slam. He turned around to find himself alone.

 

He stayed in London.

Not to spite Giles and the Council, nor even to taunt them. The truth was simply that it was the closest approximation he could find to home.

He found jobs here and there. Nothing that lasted very long, but he got by. His needs were pretty simple. When he wasn’t working he watched the telly or read, or sometimes just took long, aimless walks. He rarely got in any brawls and he avoided talking to anyone. Sometimes he’d sit at a pub by himself, and someone would try to chat him up. He’d listen, responding in monosyllables until they gave up and went away.

One night in Chelsea he thought he caught sight of a familiar head of brown hair, and he raced ahead on the sidewalk to catch up. But when he got there and the bloke turned around, it was nobody he knew. Just another stranger, in a city with eight million strangers.

Sometimes, he thought about returning to the States. He even rang Angel’s old number once, and his grandsire answered, gruff as always. They had a short conversation during which Angel did not invite Spike back to LA, and Spike did not offer to come. But Spike knew by the end of it that the old man was still around, and happy with his girl, and all was quite well for him. Spike found that knowledge surprisingly satisfying. But he stayed in London.

 

Almost a year after his first visit, Giles showed up at Spike’s flat again. His knock was more tentative this time, and Spike was shocked when he saw him. He had aged enormously in the previous months. His hair had thinned and gone all gray, and his skin was gray as well. His face was deeply lined and he stooped as if he were weak, or were carrying a great weight on his shoulders. He didn’t barge in this time. Instead he stood in the doorway, letting in a frigid blast of air.

“Come to threaten me some more, Rupert?”

He sighed. “No.”

“’Cause I haven’t eaten a single person. Not even a tiny one. As I’m sure you wankers know.”

“Yes. We’ve been aware of your activities.”

Spike laughed. “Must have been bloody bored by them.”

Giles didn’t reply.

“All right, then. What is it you want?”

“I need your help.”

Spike gaped at the man for a moment. Was Rupert off his trolley?

Giles sighed again. “Look. It’s cold out here. Allow me inside and I can explain.”

Spike was going to tell him to sod off. But curiosity got the better of him again, and in any case, he thought this might at least prove entertaining. He gestured with his arm and Giles came in. Spike locked the door behind him.

Giles didn’t take off his coat. He stood in the center of room, staring down at the shabby floor. He was shivering.

“Have a seat,” Spike said impatiently. Giles perched on the edge of the threadbare sofa.

Spike had discovered that the longer he stayed in England, the more of William’s old habits seemed to emerge, as if they’d only been dormant, waiting for the proper climate again. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet resorted to writing bad poetry. However, William would never have allowed a guest in his home without offering him something to drink, at least. “Fancy a cuppa?” Spike asked. He’d just brewed some Darjeeling.

Giles looked slightly startled. “Erm, yes, thank you.”

Spike glanced at the tea-stain that still showed clearly on the wall. He hadn’t bothered to try to clean it off. He’d meant it as a reminder, perhaps, but he wasn’t sure of what. He filled a pair of mismatched cups and brought one to Giles, who mumbled a thank you and sipped at it absently. Spike sank onto the edge of his bed and waited expectantly.

“Have you heard about Buffy?” Giles said. His voice caught slightly on her name, and his eyes were focused on the steam rising from his tea.

Spike hadn’t heard anything, but he knew what the news was going to be. “Slayer’s dead?”

Giles nodded. “She—“ He stopped to clear his throat. “She was killed by a demon six months ago.”

Spike felt a small pang. It had been a long time since he’d cared for Buffy, but once he truly had loved her. “I’m sorry,” he said, most sincerely.

Giles seemed to shake himself slightly. “Yes, well. That’s not why I’m here. But I thought…I thought you might like to know.” He looked up at Spike, his eyes suddenly sharp. “I was trying to protect her, you know. That was my job.”

Fifteen years worth of anger suddenly evaporated with an almost tactile rush. It didn’t matter anymore, did it? The deed was done. Besides, if it hadn’t been for Irene, he wouldn’t have had that short, precious time with Xander. And who knows whether he’d have ever got the chip out. So he simply nodded, and Giles looked relieved.

Spike heard himself asking, “And the others? The witch and Xa—Harris?”

Giles slumped. “Willow is dead as well,” he murmured. “And Xander has…. He has not stayed in touch.”

No wonder the man looked so horrible. He was all alone, it seemed. Oddly, the rage Spike had felt toward him was replaced with a sort of empathy.

Giles cleared his throat and went to set his cup on the slightly wonky end table. He looked for a moment as if he might be looking for a coaster, but then he must have noticed the state of the finish on the wood, and he just put the cup down.

“The Council has recently come into the possession of several important documents. They belonged to a wizard who, I’m afraid, recently met with a rather untimely end. We’re quite interested to ascertain the contents of these documents.”

He paused, but Spike didn’t say anything. He hadn’t any idea where the Watcher was going with this.

“They’re in several obscure languages, both demon and human. Some of them are in languages nobody at the Council is able to read. But then I recalled that scroll you translated for us—the one in Ipokhecian—just before you, erm….”

“Spent two years being horribly tortured?”

“Yes.”

“So you think I can decipher this lot for you.”

“At least some of it, yes.”

“And why would I be willing to do that?”

“We can pay you. Fifteen hundred now, and, if this arrangement works out, two thousand per month to remain…on retainer.”

Spike calculated quickly in his head. That would be plenty to pay the rent, with some left over for his other expenses. He wouldn’t have to grovel for those crap jobs anymore. Maybe he could even get a flat that didn’t feel damp all winter.

Giles seemed to take his hesitation as reluctance. “The Council…we have certain resources. We could also keep you supplied in blood.”

“Human?” Spike asked sharply. He’d been surviving off animal for some time.

“Yes. Hospital rejects, that sort of thing.”

Human blood and a half-way decent place to live. Was he willing to whore himself to the Council for so little? “All right,” he said.

Apparently, he was.

 

In the end, it wasn’t so bad. He gave Giles a list of all the dialects he could understand tolerably well. It was a long list, actually. He’d always been good at languages, and he’d had plenty of time over the last century and a half to learn them. His extensive travels helped as well, of course. His repertoire tended to be heavy on demonic tongues, but that was fine with the Council. They could generally find someone fairly easily to handle the human ones.

Spike worked his way through the new documents in a little over a week. But then it occurred to someone at the Council that they had a huge backlog of books and scrolls and papers stuffed away in various places, many of which had remained untranslated for centuries. There were enough to keep Spike busy for years.

Every Wednesday, the Council sent a messenger to Spike’s flat. His new, improved flat, still in a basement but now with a separate bedroom and sitting area, and without mildew in the corners. The furniture was much improved as well. The messenger would drop off several items for him and would pick up the previous week’s, along with the translations he’d carefully written out in his Victorian copybook cursive.

He ended up accumulating a small library of his own, various texts he found useful as he struggled to pull meaning out of strings of consonants and vowels not intended for human mouths—or vampire, either. He found he enjoyed searching for elusive books in dusty shops all over the city. Occasionally he even left London, left England altogether, to spend a few days somewhere on the continent, tracking down a particular treatise. It kept him busy, and the Council even shelled out for some fairly posh hotels when he went abroad. The diet of human blood was lovely as well.

Aside from the messenger, he never saw any of the members of the Council, including Giles. But Rupert wrote him notes now and then, brief, business-like documents giving pertinent details on particular items. Spike got the idea that the Council was pleased with his work.

Honestly, he was rather pleased with it himself.

It was only in the middle of the day, when the sun trapped him inside his flat and he lay restless in bed, that he admitted to himself how hollow he felt inside. It was as if he had a hunger that could never be sated, an itch that could never be scratched. While a few bright rays tried to sneak in through his one tiny window, and when footsteps and voices passed by on the sidewalk outside, Spike acknowledged to himself that he was desperately lonely.

[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/57190.html)


	7. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Irene, Chapter 7/8**_  
**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 7/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

 

[Previous chapters here.](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Irene&filter=all)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER SEVEN**

 

He should have noticed the accent. Not that he never heard American in this neighborhood—loads of tourists and ex-pats passed through—but nearly all of the patrons of this particular pub were English. They weren’t all human, but even the demons who frequented The Fyarl’s Head were mostly locals. But Spike had his nose buried deep in a book that the Watchers had discovered tucked away somewhere. It was apparently a Bohg’dar cookery book, and, as he sussed out the lists of ingredients, he was feeling relieved that he wasn’t a Bohg’dar. So when a voice said “Mind if I join you?” he didn’t notice the accent, and didn’t look up.

“Suit y’self,” he mumbled. Did T’kpy’rer really mean “rotted snakes’ brains?”

“Good book?”

He looked up in annoyance, ready to flash some fangs or do whatever it took to get this git to leave him be. Then the air flew out of his lungs with a _whoosh_ and all he could do was gape dumbly.

The man across from him grinned. “Never pictured you as the bookworm type.”

Spike swallowed, opened his mouth, shut it, swallowed again. Finally, he croaked, “Xander??”

“What’s left of me.”

What was left of him was a single eye, apparently. At least, the other was covered by a patch. The rest of him, the parts that Spike could see, anyhow, looked pretty good. Older, of course. He was nearly forty, Spike realized with a start. A decade older than Spike had been when he was killed. His dark hair was salted with gray, his skin was tanned and slightly lined, especially around the corner of his eye. He was wearing a faded navy t-shirt and a pale-blue denim button-down. His chest looked broad and muscular, all traces of his baby fat long gone.

“Xander?” Spike repeated, still weakly.

The man’s smile didn’t waver. His lips still had that funny little curl at the corners. “Hi, Spike.”

“What…what….” Spike tried to get hold of himself. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

A flicker of elation flashed through Spike’s body, and he quickly dampened it. Harris likely needed his assistance with some sort of Slayer business. Well, he wouldn’t help. It was bad enough he’d allowed himself to become the Watchers’ sodding minion, but he wasn’t going to be doing chores for that lot of bitches. He’d tell Harris that, too. In a minute.

“How did you find me?”

“Got your address from the Council. I’ve been systematically checking all the pubs nearby for three days. Figured you’d show up eventually. I didn’t…didn’t want to intrude on you at home.” Xander had a pint glass in front of him, and he took a long draught now.

“What happened to your eye?”

Xander looked slightly startled, and his hand flew up to touch the patch, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Sunnydale happened. Bastard almost got the other one, too. Faith saved me.”

“Faith?”

“Slayer. She was my—oh, never mind.”

“Faith.” Spike wracked his brains. “Wasn’t she the psycho bint?”

“Yeah.” Xander sighed. “She saw the light.”

Spike thought about this a moment, then shrugged. “I heard you were a Watcher yourself.” He tried to sound nonchalant about it, as if he hadn’t spent years obsessing over the small tidbits of information he’d been able to glean about Xander.

“Former Watcher. I left after I found Giles’s diaries. After I found out….” He shook his head. “I couldn’t be around him anymore. Couldn’t be around any of them.” He laughed softly. “I’ve gone back to being a carpenter. I like building things.”

Another flicker of hope shot through Spike. “So you’re not here on Slayer business?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Then…why?”

“Two reasons. But I’m gonna need a refill before I go there. You?” He gestured at Spike’s nearly empty glass.

“Yeah.”

Xander got up and walked to the bar, while Spike tried not to stare at him. His bottom half looked as fit as his top, in khakis that were tailored much better than those he’d worn in his younger days. He had a slight limp, favoring his right knee a bit. Spike frantically tried to guess what on earth the man wanted from him. His mind was still a blank when Xander returned with two fresh pints. He set Spike’s on the table, sat down, and gulped about half of his own.

Spike pretended to wait patiently, when actually he wanted to reach across and strangle Xander until Xander told him what he was about.

Xander cleared his throat and had another sip. “Okay. The first thing. When you were…. Back in Sunnyhell. When that demon got you.”

“Irene,” Spike said quietly.

“Yeah. Irene.” He closed his eye and took a few deep breaths, then opened it again. “Giles sent you there on purpose.”

Spike had no idea about how to respond. He might have let go of his anger toward Rupert, but he wouldn’t lie for him, not again. But if he told the truth, what would that do to Xander?

His voice low, Xander said, “You can tell me, Spike. I told you: I’ve seen his diaries. He knew what that demon was and he knew what would happen if you gave her the skull.”

Spike slumped in his chair. “Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Back when you were…you were at my place in Sunnydale. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Spike sighed. “You’d never have believed me. Soulless monster, yeah?”

Xander frowned and crossed his arms. “I might have.”

Spike shook his head. “No. You’d have doubted Rupert, though, perhaps even enough to spoil your friendship. You needed him.”

“I needed _you_,” Xander whispered.

Spike gaped at him again.

“After you left…. You were right, you had to go. I got it. But I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if you’d stayed, you know?”

Spike was still speechless.

“I went on with my life. Watched Sunnydale destroyed. Anya saved the world, did you know that? There was this army of Neanderthal-vamps, and the First Evil, and…and it was bad. That’s when I lost my eye. And then Angel shows up with this magic necklace, says it has to be worn by a Champion, someone stronger than a human. My girl—well, she wasn’t mine anymore, was she?—she got herself redemonized and she wore the thing and saved the world. Got killed herself, though.” He stopped and took another drink.

“I spent some time in Cleveland, and Africa, and Scotland. Became a Watcher, which nobody expected. Least of all me. Saw Willow killed. Then Buffy. Got married along the way.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t heard that bit of news before. “To a Slayer?”

“No. Just a girl.” Xander laughed a bit. “She wasn’t even a demon, can you believe it? Just a nice Scottish girl. Gillian. She worked at the chemists in town. I went there a lot. Always somebody getting hurt, needing bandages or drugs or something. I got her pregnant.” He shrugged.

“You have a child?”

“Yeah. A daughter. Alafair. She’s….” He tilted his head up in thought. “She’s almost eleven, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I haven’t seen her in a long time. Gillian and I were divorced when Ali was two. She remarried, I heard. She didn’t want anything to do with me. She said I never loved her. She was right. I miss Ali, though.”

Xander drained his glass while Spike gazed at him, wondering why they were having this rather one-sided conversation.

“So all this time, I’ve felt like there was something missing, you know? Something more important than an eye. And I’d think about…about that time in Sunnydale. With you.” He picked up his empty glass and grimaced at it. Spike shoved his own untouched pint over and Xander gave him a wry little smile.

“I tried sleeping with men. Figured, okay, maybe I’m gay.”

“And?”

“It was okay. Not any better or worse than sleeping with women.”

Spike had felt the same way, the few times he’d bothered lately to get his end away. He didn’t tell Xander that.

“So. The second thing.” Xander chewed his lip for a moment. “I was wondering…hoping…. Crap. This isn’t easy.” He rubbed at his eye. “This thing that I’m missing? I think it might be you.”

Xander looked down at the table and hunched his shoulders as if he expected a blow. The silence stretched painfully between them as Spike nearly started a hundred different responses. Finally, Xander whispered, “Okay,” and made as if to stand.

Spike’s hand shot out and he grabbed Xander’s wrist. “No! Don’t! I…. Give me a moment, yeah?”

Xander nodded miserably, and collapsed back into his chair.

“So…you want to try an…experiment, like? See whether I fit that empty space?”

“No, I don’t—Yeah. I guess so.” Xander shook his head. “Look, it’s stupid, I know. You don’t deserve to be a guinea pig. And you’re probably not interested anyway. I’m sorry.”

“Never said I wasn’t interested.”

Xander looked up sharply. “Oh?”

“Truth is…bugger. Truth is, I have an empty space as well. Been thinking for some time it might be Xander-shaped.”

Xander blinked at him. “Really? You’re not having a piss?”

Spike sputtered with laughter. “That’s ‘taking the piss,’ Xander. How long have you lived in Britain?”

“Apparently, not long enough,” Xander mumbled.

“Well, no, I’m not taking the piss. You know I have a soul, yeah?”

“Yeah. I heard.”

“Well, mine wasn’t any sodding Gypsy curse. I earned mine—bloody hard it was, too. Do you know why?”

Xander shook his head.

“So I’d be worthy of you.”

It was Xander’s turn to gape. At last he asked, “Then why did you stay away from me after you got it? You could have found me if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, I expect I could have. But….” Spike bit at his lip. “’M still a demon,” he said softly.

“Yeah, so?”

“You deserve better than that. I’m…I’m beneath you, Xander.”

“I can’t believe you’d think that. How could you think that, Spike?”

Spike vamped out. He was surprised when Xander didn’t even flinch at the sight of fangs and bumps and yellow eyes. “See?” Spike said, lisping slightly over his sharp teeth.

“I know you’re a vampire, Spike.”

“Yeah, berk. But soul or not, I’m not _human_. I can’t love like a human, can’t treat you like a human would.”

“I think you can love just fine. I remember Drusilla. And I don’t want you to treat me like a human would—not really such a great track record there, actually.” He shook his head. “Look. I’m nothing special. Never have been. Now I’m just a carpenter, pretty banged-up, falling into middle age. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see my father—well, except he had two good eyes—and it scares the crap out of me.”

“Xander—“

“No, wait. Coming to see you, telling you this stuff, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It took me fucking _years_ to get up enough courage. If you don’t want me, fine, just say so. Be honest. But don’t try to tell me you’re not good enough for me.” His voice rose as he spoke, and some of the customers nearby looked over curiously. Still in gameface, Spike snarled at them and they quickly turned away.

Spike struggled silently and mightily with his conscience. He should tell Xander he wasn’t interested. It’d hurt the man for a time, but surely he’d get over it eventually, and he’d be able to move on with his life, demon-free. But that would mean the end of all Spike’s hope—a hope he didn’t even realize until now he’d been holding onto. A hope that was the only thing keeping him from greeting the sunrise. How could he feel so much for this man? They’d only had the short time together, never even shagged.

He closed his book and put the cap on his pen. “Come home with me,” he said, his voice nearly giving out.

Xander blinked at him for a moment, then let out a long, noisy breath. One corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “This doesn’t mean I’m easy,” he said.

 

It was awkward between them when they got to Spike’s flat. They both stood inside the door, not quite close enough to touch, looking at one another uncertainly. When Spike couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he walked into the kitchenette. “Foster’s?” he asked.

“Oh gods, yes.”

Xander ventured a bit farther into the room, looking inquisitively at the books on Spike’s shelves. Spike had tacked a few drawings on his wall, sketches Angel had done and Spike had nicked: Dru circa 1880, her mouth curved in a naughty smile; Liam before he was turned and when his stupid hair was long and messy; Buffy, Willow, and Xander still in high school, lounging at the Bronze. They were among the very few belongings Spike had bothered to drag around the world with him. Xander looked closely at those as well, finally taking the bottle that Spike handed him. “These are good,” he said.

“Pouf did them.”

“Man. We were so young,” he said, looking at the one with the Scoobies.

“Still are. I’m over a century your senior, remember.”

Xander took a drink. “Yeah, but it’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.”

Spike snorted. “Fancying yourself Indiana Jones?”

“Hey, Indy wouldn’t have lasted two weeks in a castle full of Slayers.”

Spike laughed in agreement and then they both stood there stupidly again.

“Hey, let’s—“

“Look, we—“ They both spoke at once, then stopped. Spike cursed under his breath. He felt like a girl on her first date. He was a master vampire, for Christ’s sake! “How about some telly?” he asked with desperation. Xander sighed with relief and nodded.

They sat side-by-side on Spike’s sofa. It was a small one, really more of a love seat. It was black leather, though, and comfortable, and it reminded him of his beloved duster, which Irene had destroyed nearly two decades earlier. Spike flipped aimlessly through the channels until he found a cricket game. To his surprise, Xander didn’t complain. In fact, the man even made a comment now and then that demonstrated that he’d picked up something of the rules. Spike lifted an eyebrow at him and Xander grinned.

“When I was in Scotland, every time I turned on the tv a bunch of girls would come and sit around me and talk and stuff. Which was okay, but sometimes I wanted some alone time, right? So I figured out they all hated cricket. It was a sure-fire way to keep them away.”

“Cricket as Slayer repellant. Never thought of giving that a go, myself.”

They watched a while longer, mostly without talking, just sipping at their lager.

And then abruptly, Xander set his bottle on the table beside him and stood.

“Okay,” he said. “This is stupid. But I’ve wasted so much time already. I want to…. Can I show you what I am, nowadays? ‘Cause not so much with the eternal youth here, you know?”

Spike peered up at him. “You think it will matter to me?”

“Let’s find out.” Xander unbuttoned the denim shirt and shrugged it off, allowing it to fall on the floor. Spike simply sat back and watched. Then Xander pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropped that as well, and looked at Spike expectantly.

As Spike had already deduced, Xander was trim and muscular, with just a few extra pounds around his middle giving proof of his age. His arms were very tan. His chest and torso were marked with many scars, most small, some quite large. A particularly nasty-looking one curled across the right side of his ribs.

Xander looked down at himself. “I hardly ever take my shirt off at work. When I do, I tell the guys I was in a bad car accident.”

Spike had a sudden strong urge to touch the flat planes of Xander’s belly, to lick at his large brown nipples, to burrow his nose into Xander’s neck and inhale the man’s scents. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

That was clearly not the response Xander expected. With a frown, he kicked off his shoes. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them and his boxers down past his hips, allowing them to fall to the floor. He stepped out of them ungracefully, so that he stood wearing nothing but a pair of white socks.

More gouges and gashes marred his lower belly, where a line of dark hair led to his groin. His cock was soft and circumcised. He looked so vulnerable like this, and now Spike yearned to take Xander’s organ into his mouth, to taste it and see what it looked like when it was erect, to weigh Xander’s heavy bollocks in his hand.

Xander’s legs were scarred as well, and his right knee was badly misshapen.

Finally, Xander pulled off his eyepatch. He let it fall on the floor. “So?” he said.

Spike put his own bottle down and stood, and then walked over until he was very close to Xander. “Beautiful,” he said again.

When Xander shook his head, disbelieving, Spike grabbed Xander’s hand and pressed it to his own crotch, where his cock strained, hard and needy, against the denim. “You see what just the sight of you does to me? Even in those bloody socks.”

 

By the time Spike had stripped as well, and Xander pulled off the socks, it felt oddly natural for their bodies to move together, for them to wind their arms around one another, for their lips to meet in shared, sweet hunger. Xander was so solid and hot against him that Spike couldn’t help but moan and then Xander clutched him harder. They were both fighting for breath when they broke the kiss.

“Bed,” Spike said, his voice hoarse and guttural. Xander only nodded and didn’t resist as Spike dragged him into the bedroom. Spike’s bed was narrow. He’d chosen it as a purposeful reminder to himself that he was alone. Now that didn’t matter. Xander pushed him back onto it and straddled him, then began working his generous mouth across Spike’s skin. For a moment, Spike was startled—although pleasantly so—at how assertive Xander was being. But then, of course, this was no whelp on top of him, but a mature man, a man who claimed to have been waiting years for this. All of which was just fine with Spike, as soft warmth spread over his body, inch by inch, and as he trailed his fingers through Xander’s longish, silky hair.

Xander made his way down Spike’s belly, but then he bypassed Spike’s aching cock and balls to lick at the jut of his hips, and suck lightly at the juncture of his legs and torso. Then he continued down, his breaths tickling the hairs on Spike’s legs. Over a hundred and fifty years old and Spike had never until this night realized that the back of his knees was an erogenous zone. But it was, it most definitely was, and he panted and bloody whimpered as Xander mouthed there. But when Xander began sucking on Spike’s toes, drawing each digit in and out of his mouth with excruciating deliberation, Spike broke down and begged. “Xan—gods---_please_!”

Xan raised his head. His face was flushed and his lips were swollen. “Yes?”

“Fuck me. Please fuck me, Xander.”

Xander’s breath hitched in his chest. But still he gave a teasing grin and purred, “But I haven’t done your back yet.”

“I’m going to bite you,” Spike threatened helplessly.

Xander kept right on smiling as he released Spike’s foot and settled himself back on top of Spike. Spike groaned at the slight friction and pressure against his cock, then pulled Xander’s face close to his so they could kiss again. Xander tasted so good. Spike angled his own head a bit so he could whisper into Xander’s ear: “Slick’s in the drawer there.” He felt Xander shudder against him.

Xander reached over and fumbled the drawer open, then fished out the bottle. It was a large one, and Xander raised an eyebrow at him. “Use it when I wank,” Spike said defensively. It was true. He hadn’t shared his bed with anyone in…in years, actually.

Xander moved down again and gently urged Spike’s thighs apart. A moment later Spike was arching and biting at his lip as a thick, slippery finger worked its way inside him. “Okay?” Xander asked, sounding slightly concerned.

“More!” Spike growled, and Xander laughed. A moment later, a second finger joined the first. Spike bent his legs up and apart and had to close his eyes, or the sight of Xander working him with his fingers would have undone him completely.

He tried to order Xander to hurry up, but all that he managed was a desperate mewling sound. But apparently Xander understood, because he withdrew his fingers—causing Spike to whimper again—and rearranged himself. “Oh, fuuuuck,” he groaned as his cock pressed against Spike’s greedy hole, and then breached the ring of muscle. Spike would have agreed completely, had he been capable of saying a word. Instead, he reached down and squeezed the base of his own cock tightly enough to hurt, trying to put off his climax a bit longer.

Xander moved over him, in him, slowly at first, then increasing the depth of his strokes until Spike felt stretched and full, and small sparks of pleasure danced up and down his spine. He wrapped his legs around Xander and grabbed the headboard with his free hand, trying for whatever leverage he could manage to thrust upwards higher and harder.

“Spike!” Xander cried. His name from those lips was enough. Spike loosened his grip on his cock and dug his fingers into Xander’s shoulders instead. And then he was coming so hard he felt as if he had floated out of his body completely. Xander called out his name again and bucked erratically, and then filled Spike with his warm spend.

It took several minutes for Spike to completely return to reality. Xander had collapsed atop him, panting and sweaty. Eventually, Xander moved to the side, allowing his softened cock to slip out of Spike. They huddled up against each other on the small mattress, sated and content. Spike still felt a bit giddy. Still felt like he might be in a dream. But finally, with those strong, brown arms around him, he felt like he was home.

[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/57573.html)


	8. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
worried  
---|---  
**Entry tags:** |   
[irene](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/irene), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander)  
  
  
_ **Irene, Chapter 8/8** _

**Title:** Irene   
**Chapter:** 8/8   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander, Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** m/m, non-con, torture, tentacles, angst, character death-ish   
**Summary: **This fic begins in BtVS S5, sometime very shortly after _Crush_. Spike's captured by a demon. Will he be saved?   
**Author's Note: **The fic is complete and I'll post daily. Thank you to [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[**katekat1010**](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful poster!

**Here you go, gentle readers. The final chapter. I've posted it a bit early so that I have time to run and hide. Remember--it's all the muse's fault! **

[Previous chapters here.](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Irene&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0003389d/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER EIGHT**

 

“Did you see that look the waiter gave me?”

“Nah, pet. I was answering a text.”

“It wasn’t a friendly look.”

“Maybe he doesn’t fancy two blokes together.”

“He has a rainbow flag tattooed on his forearm, Spike. I think what he doesn’t fancy is the old dude macking on the hot young thing.”

Spike frowned at him. They’d been having variations of this conversation for some years now, ever since Xander’s hair had gone white and he’d become eligible for senior discounts. He still was as beautiful as ever, Spike thought, but Xander had grown self-conscious about the apparent difference in their ages.

“Want me to tell the whelp that I’m the one robbing the cradle, love?”

Xander snorted. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Sod him. Who cares what the pillock thinks? We can give him a crap tip.”

“You’re right.” Xander sighed. “Sorry.”

Spike leaned closer and placed a kiss on his lover’s cheek. “You can make it up to me later, pet,” he whispered, and crept one hand into Xander’s lap.

“You’re incorrigible,” Xander laughed.

“Evil demon, remember?”

“Evil? Not so much, babe. Not for years. But you’re definitely still my Big Bad.”

“Yeah?” Spike squeezed gently.

“Probably have to punish you later.”

“Mmm,” Spike purred. This was an old conversation, too, but a more pleasant one.

“What was the text?”

Spike was distracted, thinking of some of the mutually enjoyable ways Xander had found to punish him over the years. “What?”

“The text you were answering? I’m the one who’s supposed to go senile.”

Spike kissed him again. “You’re as daft as you ever were, and no more. The text was from Captain Forehead. Wanted to tell us he’s heard of some nasty demon activity near here.”

“But we’re on vacation!” Xander whined. “No demons except for mine. That was the deal. Just warm beaches and sand in our shorts and girly drinks with umbrellas.”

“Yeah. But nobody told the demons, did they?”

Xander scowled and poked a fork at his potato. “No, but we told Angel. I’m gonna have a word or two with him after this. Just because Emmaline—“ He broke off with a sigh.

Spike patted his knee. “He had several good decades with her. More than he ever expected, I reckon. They made their peace with her mortality long ago. I wish you’d make peace with yours.”

“I’m not afraid to die, Spike. Hell, I can hardly believe I’ve lasted as long as I have. I just don’t want to leave you alone.”

“You won’t.” And then they were both silent, because they’d talked about this before as well. Years ago they’d discussed Spike turning Xander. But they were both relieved to discover that neither of them wanted that—Spike because he was afraid it would destroy the part of Xander he loved so much, even if they could find a way to let him keep his soul, and because he didn’t want to consign his beloved to hell. Xander said he couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to go out in the sun, and he’d feel like he was cheating, somehow. They’d remained content with their decision since. But when Spike informed Xander that the day after Xander died, Spike would be watching the sunrise, Xander had yelled and carried on. Spike had refused to budge, though, and so now they avoided the topic.

Xander put down his cutlery and leaned against Spike’s shoulder. “Can these demons at least wait until tomorrow night?”

Spike narrowed his eyes at the waiter, who was hovering nearby with a disapproving look on his face. “Sure, pet,” he said. “Now, how about a nice snog to shock our server?”

 

Angel’s demons turned out not to be much trouble at all. Spike easily found them the following evening—a pack of Noragi hanging about under the piers, terrorizing tourists. Spike killed two of them and the rest ran off. Spike hoped they’d get the word out that snacking on humans was not kosher, at least while he was in town.

Spike rang Angel and told him in no uncertain terms that they didn’t want to hear about any more demons while they were on holiday. Oddly, Angel had been their connection to the Council for years, letting Spike and Xander know when there were things to be translated or killed, jobs that, along with Xander’s carpentry, paid the bills nicely. Angel had been the one to tell them when Giles died of a heart attack some years back, alone in his flat. Xander hadn’t spoken to Giles since he learned what he’d done to Spike, and he refused to go to his funeral, but still he grieved, and Spike understood and consoled him.

Now, the Noragi gone, Spike and Xander had a few days of near-bliss. They’d stayed mostly in London all these years, and warmth and clear skies were rare novelties. During the afternoon, while Spike still slept, Xander spent an hour or two out on the lanai, mostly so that he could come back to bed and wake Spike up with his body still toasty and smelling of seasalt and sunscreen. He was delicious, and Spike couldn’t get enough of him. Xander joked about needing Viagra, but the truth was that most men half his age would envy his stamina and prowess between the sheets.

It was lovely.

They showered then, and walked up the beach hand in hand or with their arms draped around one another’s waists. There was a little restaurant not too far away Xander’d taken a liking to—not the one with the twat of a waiter—and Xander would eat dinner while Spike drank cold beer and, occasionally, snagged a bite or two from Xander’s plate.

This night after dinner they strolled down empty pavement. Xander’s bad knee had become worse over the years and two surgeries hadn’t helped much, so they went slowly. That was fine—there was no hurry. There was a bit of a breeze. They talked quietly of many unimportant things. How much Spike disliked Xander’s Hawaiian shirt and how Xander might possibly persuade him to wear one himself. Whether they should bill the Council for Spike’s demon disposal a few days earlier. If Angel was going to revert to his broody old self now that he was alone again. They were arguing good-naturedly over which film to see the following night when someone abruptly stepped directly in their path, blocking their way.

As soon as Spike saw her, he hissed in shock and pushed Xander backwards so that Spike stood between them.

“You’re looking well, William,” she said.

She looked exactly the same. Tiny. Ash-blonde hair up in a bun. She wore a pale yellow dress with a flared skirt, and straw-colored sandals. She was smiling.

“Spike?” Xander said.

“Get out of here, love. Now!”

“Who the hell is this?” Xander demanded, trying to push forward.

“Oh, aren’t you going to introduce me to your boyfriend, William?” She smiled with faux-coquettishness.

“Xander, please! Run!” His voice was desperate, and he knew Xander would never, ever obey this particular order.

“Alexander. It’s a pleasure. My name is Irene.”

“Oh, god,” Xander said.

Her grin became wider. “Has William told you about me?”

“You fucking _bitch_!” Xander cried.

She tsked and shook her head sadly. “No better manners than the vampire, I see. Such a shame.”

And the rest happened slowly, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Xander lunged toward her. As Spike struggled to hold him back, tentacles emerged from Irene’s body. Spike vamped out, but the tentacles whipped around him and Xander anyway, and they both struggled uselessly against them. Spike was thrown to the ground, wrapped in steel-strong binding from his neck to his ankles. Xander was held upright, though, and he writhed and yelled.

“Xander! No!!!” screamed Spike. Then a tentacle invaded his mouth and he couldn’t scream any longer, couldn’t bloody breathe, as Xander looked at him with his face a mask of horror.

“Spike!” Xander shouted. And then Irene thrust an appendage into Xander’s chest. Xander shrieked horribly and bright blood bloomed on his garish shirt. His body twitched spasmodically and the tentacle retracted. Xander’s heart was held at its tip. Helpless and nearly blinded by rage and grief, Spike watched as his love’s eyes went blank, and then all the tentacles let Xander go, allowing his limp body to crash to the sidewalk.

Spike couldn’t even move as Irene stood triumphantly over him, waving Xander’s stolen heart in the air. “It’s been so long since I’ve had vampire,” she said. “I’ll bet you taste nice and fresh again.”

And as yet another tentacle burrowed into his ear, bringing with it the agony he’d never forgotten, all he could do was hope she’d dust him.

 

“That was delightful, William!” she crowed. “The best one yet.”

He blinked up at her, trying to think past the pain. He was back in the cave, chained naked again to the stone. His muscles were wasted and useless and once more, his torn throat was unable to make a sound.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’m thinking that the next time we’ll do one where your grandsire finds you and you fall for him, but then he loses his soul.” She nodded. “Yes. That should be fun.”

He blinked again. And then, as he watched the torchlight sputter over her head, it hit him, and he remembered the truth.

He wasn’t back in the cave. He’d never left it. She’d never carried him to that alley and nobody had rescued him. Nobody would ever rescue him because nobody cared. Nobody loved him. Nobody had.

All of it—Xander’s tender care, the trip to Africa to win his soul, the years he floated around Europe, the time with Angel, and every moment with his beloved Xander—all of it was an illusion. A bittersweet dream invoked by the tentacles that raped his brain. She’d caused him to lead other imaginary lives, perhaps dozens of times. Each of them ended with her destroying whatever was important to him, and him waking up still bound to the stone. Somehow, she could see these fantasies, too, and she fed off them, fed off of the emotions that played through him as he hallucinated away his captivity.

He wailed silently as she laughed and played with his flaccid cock.

Oh, gods.

He couldn’t bear this again.

He couldn’t.

He went nearly catatonic with despair as she gave his bollocks a last squeeze and chirped, “Good night!” and left him alone.

 

The torchlight wasn’t very bright, but still it hurt his eyes. He’d been alone in the darkness for some time.

Irene hummed something tuneless and stroked a tiny hand across his brow. “You’re just wonderful. Nobody has ever lasted this long before, you know.” He hated himself because he almost craved her tender touch and soft words. They were the closest he’d had to comfort in a long time.

As always, he wished he could beg her to dust him. Not that she’d listen anyway. She ignored the voiceless movements of his lips and patted his shoulder. He didn’t try to struggle as she poured cold, rancid pig’s blood into his mouth. There was no more struggle left in him.

A tentacle emerged from her body and he tried to will his mind away as she shoved the tip of it into his torn sphincter. His consciousness remained stubbornly in the here and now as another tentacle stroked his soft cock, and the one inside him pressed against his prostate until a few dribbles of tepid, pearly fluid seeped from the tip of his organ. She scooped up the semen and ate it, smacking her lips with pleasure.

He closed his eyes as a tentacle made its way to his head.

He’d try to think of Xander, he decided. Even though he knew the memories weren’t real, he’d recall all the sweet things Xander had said to him and the ways in which Xander had touched his body. He’d remember having a lover, a friend, even if it had all been false.

Just as the tip of Irene’s tentacle was brushing against the shell of his left ear, a noise came from behind him. The tentacle whipped away, and he had the satisfaction of seeing her face go slack with shock before she darted around the stone.

From his limited vantage-point, he couldn’t see what happened next. He could hear the scuffles and curses, though, and the sound of flesh giving way, and the inhuman screams. He could smell blood as well, human and demon both.

And then there was silence. A few low groans, a slight bit of shuffling.

Two faces were looking down at him, both pale and blood-streaked, both with mouths gaping wide open in surprise.

“Jesus Christ! That’s Spike!” said a voice so achingly familiar that Spike began to cry.

Buffy’s lip curled in disgust. “Gross. What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Spike couldn’t answer, of course, could only stare at Xander in mute appeal.

“Buff, I think that demon’s been torturing him. He looks like shit.”

A stake appeared in Buffy’s hand and she poked at Spike’s chest with it. “Why are you back in Sunnydale?”

Back? When was it? How long had he been here? “Help me. Please,” he mouthed at them.

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m in no mood for games, Spike. That demon got…ichor…all over my new boots. And tentacles. Ugh. And I don’t even think it was the big bad we were looking for.” She poked him again, harder. “What are you doing here?”

“Buff? I don’t think he can talk.”

Spike nodded at Xander.

Buffy huffed in annoyance. “Do you have anything to do with whatever’s sneaking around, making things all hellmouthy?”

Spike shook his head.

“Then why are you back here? Oh, god. You don’t still think you’re in love with me, do you?”

Again, Spike shook his head.

Xander looked around nervously. “I’m wondering whether this demon had any friends. Getting out of this place would be of the good, I think.”

“Yeah, okay.” She shoved the stake back in her pocket and started to walk away.

Xander looked alarmed. “We can’t just leave him like this!”

She stalked back and the stake reappeared. “Fine. I’ll dust him.” She lifted her arm up and Spike braced himself for the final blow.

“Wait! You’re just gonna do it in, uh, cold blood?”

“Vampire. Slayer. Remember?”

“But he’s not hurting anyone now. He hasn’t in a while, at least around here. Not since the chip. He’s kinda the victim this time. And he doesn’t look like he’s gonna be up to any mischief for a while. Even I could take him right now.”

Again with the eye roll. “Xander, we don’t have time for this. Something big’s brewing. Willow’s coming back, and who knows what kind of shape she’s in, and whether she’s gonna be all with the veins and the skinning again. I’m not gonna play nurse to William the Bloody.”

Xander looked down at him, his brown eyes—two of them, and that seemed so strange!—liquid beneath a furrowed brow. “I’ll play nurse,” he said quietly.

Again, tears filled Spike’s eyes.

“Xander, you can’t—“

This time, Xander’s voice was louder, determined. “Buffy, I can. I’m going to.”

She narrowed her eyes at both of them and then shrugged. “Fine. But one bad move from bleach for brains and he’s ashes.” She grabbed an axe out of Xander’s hand and Spike winced as the blade came down near his left hand. There was a clang and a thunk. A moment later, and the routine was repeated at his right hand and then each of his ankles.

He still couldn’t move, though, couldn’t even twitch anything below his neck. He wondered whether Xander would change his mind. Buffy stalked away, axe in hand. He could hear her footsteps leaving the chamber.

Xander shrugged out of his jacket and laid it gently across Spike. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he mumbled. “Never doctored the evil undead before. I’ll do my best, though, okay?”

Spike nodded, mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

Xander drew him slowly and carefully into his arms. Gods, he was warm and solid and strong. He cradled Spike as he carried him across the cave and then into a tunnel. Spike caught a quick glimpse of Irene, hacked into several mangled pieces and scattered across the floor. Xander talked the whole way. “I’ll have to get you some blood somewhere. Willy’s maybe. I wonder how much it costs. You are so paying me back when you’re better, because O-Neg isn’t really in my household budget, ya know? And then we’re gonna get you a bath, because no offense, but you stink. And the hair—not really your best look. I think I’ve got some scissors, though, and….”

As Xander nattered on, they walked out under a star-filled sky. Xander’s heart beat strongly in his chest, thumping just inches from Spike’s ear.

This could be another delusion. He could truly be back in the cave still, Irene’s bloody tentacle wedged in his cranium. She could be standing over him right now in her green shoes and blue dress, cackling away.

Or he could be safe in Xander’s arms. His Xander. And they could have a whole lifetime ahead of them.

 

_~~~fin~~~_


End file.
